Down in the Hollow

It’s play, not a game, not quite—
No rules, no inside/outside.
You have the strong sensation

That the language of the poem
Isn’t the poem. This language
Is more like a chrysalis,

A containment in process,
A framework inside of which
A poem may be secreted.

The lines feel like underground
Railways, subway lines, tunnels,
Which real poems will travel in.

There’s no goal, yet. You’re playing
With shifting what you’re saying.