No, not allusive, not collaged,
This chrestomathic poetry
Thieves for mere edification,
Attempts a kind of alchemy,
A lab box for boffins, witches,
And language’s inquisitors,
Neither science nor ritual,
Wicked, gleeful exploration,
Child with a magnifying glass,
Crone with her simples, Mo Willems
Madly doodling pigs and pigeons.
Let the body whirl in the world
However best that body can,
Fling all the paints against the wall,
See what lives, watch what runs. Mix them.