He didn’t mean it: the plan, the body,
the shape of semantics, the visceral signals
cried out for disruption. Poem wrings
his hands. Indecisive art.
Freedom was the name
of the security guard at the door.
Form is never more. Philadelphia
folds around the absent sound.
Is it new mythologies Poem seeks,
dodging tourist lines and
palmed-bill allusions?
Poem’s research is a re-
calibration of intent.
No, fashion isn’t Poem’s strong suit.
A rhythm of activity presides.
Besides, the bell wasn’t really
there to be broken. Poem
resides in it; Poem,
alive again, takes the job
of tour guide. Misleads.
Breaks again.
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