What poems are are opinions
dressed up ready to go out. Yet
I fall in love with the woman
that speaks. But not to me. A muse

who has a muse already. Yet
a poem shouldn’t get it’s joy
from its content, only from form!
And when the content makes no sense

this is true. I open youtube
to watch the faber poets speak.
One with a brown jumper, a rough
brown jumper with relief lining.

I imagine speaking with her.
She brushes me off, rightfully.
As surface bounces off surface.
It’s surfaces all the way down.

I should give up the word, lay down
and let her voice walk over me,
perhaps the weight would stop my breath.
But if I give up, aren’t I wrong?

If I give up I assume that
my continuance would cause things.
I submit to continue, then
one day, silence falls out of me