ThinkstockPhotos-146894611.jpgWhat is it?
is it is or is it it?
or the patina
they make on a page?

Like a Baby’s dimple,
Where ?

Will the “real” poet know?
The perfect wordsmith
To the perfect word,
Carrying it from his cart
Of the ordinary to the
Front of the self-service line,
Dropping it in.
Its characteristic sound
Clues us to its use
Reveals the depth of perfection
We can expect
Soon, so, soon.

Will we be freed to gambol
In its air,
Gavotte to its flute,
While others with no smithing shingle sink?

Words’ devotees
Blithely capture breaths,
Keeping them
On Holiday
All the moments
Of allotted existence and
Given utterance
As the gift with no returns.

Then, a phantom baby cries.
And the Smith must launch the
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Amissville Virginia