Secrets and Lines

A poet must be a secret agent.
Loitering on the corners of the mind.
Developing snapshots in verbal solutions.
Folding and unfolding analysis and counter-analysis.
Teasing out the crux of the matter from endless chatter.
Seated in the corner he will face the open door, recording non-events as events.
Lost in the shadows invisible to the ones he must watch.
Long neck spiked by a turned up collar, head bowed in a deft trilby.
Faceless and grey his eyes will race.
His fingers spindling across the human race.
Spinning world wide webs.
Breathing in the dizzy fumes of 100percent living proof.
Tweaking lines he'll animate poetry from puppets.
He should know and feel the roots of phenomena.
He should know the cause and effect.
He will decide what is clear and present.
And remember all that fades away.

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