The genre, the lyric,
The inscribed poem is glass
Blown from dunes set on fire,
Twirled in gobs at arm's length
While it's still dangerous,
Clipped, set, allowed to cool
Into proverbs, cliches
About glasses half full,
Half empty, real lyrics,
Baubles whose dependence
On settings, performance
With accompaniment
Among the palaces
Of song, dance, story, scenes,
And so forth conceal them
From their own existence,
Their fragile translucence,
Bent gleams and reflections.
It is not unhappy.
It is not dishonest.
It is a distortion
Of every thought the sands
Will break over, cover,
And scatter back to sleep.
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