A plague upon this gardening of words
the predication of lines onto a hedge of form,
of would-be farmers with their stolid stock-in-trade.
I’d rather, in a kind of remish sleep, have fantasies
of wild, imperfect, but fallow fields,
of fertile thoughts that bloom in abstract shapes,
and fly, like seeds, as if with wings, with syncopated
unyielding beat, to an other, alien, world or place.
But like some Johnny-come-lately Apple Seed
I’d bag all the words that still remain,
then shaking once, would sow them wide and near
to grow like weed on mountainside.
Thus free, I’d cut, with dithyrambic shears
the topiary chains of literary fears.