Poetry’s the Only Thing to Do

Poetry’s the only thing to do (yes, my dear,

we are addressing you) when all life’s less-

than-palatable tinctures and extractions,

viscous fluids, semi-solid substances

and stubborn rocky indigestibilities bloop

through – and when those bum-de-bums

alchemically therefrom become a craft

that you can steer with some precision

toward at least a simulacrum of the shore

of the delicious mess of felt experience –

where we extract the meanings of what

melts into the prurience biology demands

of mind – to find what happens at the edge

of death, or sex, or rue (turn around again,

my dear, we aren’t through). Poetry’s

the only thing to do besides say toodle-oo.

.