The world is full of poets who, never
short of word or rhyme, contrive to write each
other out. They walk their walks in verse dance-steps,

their breath a crush of similes,
their themes on cuff-linked sleeves held
high. This metaphor for man, this mass beyond a

verb, incarnates the noun that,
lost in Eden’s ground, wants more than
all or self, or a heart in time with a sonnet’s beat.