So. "Poetry is a good provider
Of the strange," wrote Dean Young, falling higher.
Stroll the streets and alleyways, banging pots
And singing a hullabaloo song that's not
As elegant as it could be. We do
Our best. We comb through the false for the true,
Good primates grooming each other. We bite
The crunchy, tiny bits between our teeth
And then go back to grooming what's beneath.
We are gossips, spying on each other
As we help. Why go to all the bother
Of devotion if there weren't a nit there
Somewhere to pluck out, bite, and remember?
Ah, the truth, nothing like it, nothing like
Songs' accusations on a moonlit night.