A Non-Poem

a poem- (to phrase it weakly,
as my muse is,
as I, sickly)
may be a bohemian exudation,
a war-like insinuation,
a contemplated, learned elaboration,
or one of a thousand other Orphic manifestations--
but THIS
is not it at all.

This verse-
had it courage,
would be a wide-pointing curse,
a song such as an African elephant sings
in these poaching times...
this dark age of "scholarship,"
which perhaps was the word I loved best...

it reminded me of comradeship
and reflected some of my better poetentials...
my others being generous and childlike, perhaps,
but
(the bad moon hanging over me growing fatter)
it barely matters-
THIS ISN'T POETRY!