A Poet Who Has Forgotten The Word
By Abigail Leigh
2 a.m. and sheep run rampant,
baaa baaa baaadgering sleep and soundness,
to their madness.
Off I go: wool-gathering
...97, 98, 99
coxed to corral each
musing into line
after line of fluffed-up poetry—
a wolfish pursuit, I soon find
(culling meaning from meanderings)
as still rest
my herding mind.
For I am no shepherd of well-bred
(fleeced by their own crimson ambition)
this poet, instead, has been
the very Word which, once counted
sincere, is said would shear
away this wool from sightless
alas, the lamb that is lost is I.