The Open


Iambs run like lions from your lips,
bounding when the hunt begins,
joy expressed with murder.

Images, abstract enough to crystallize
inside the empty spaces
of incomplete description,

fix heavily to every corner. 
The moderator turns his head 
as you reel beyond allotted time.

Infinite, the facets of your
inner prism; sanguine,
the light you share of insight.

Your stanzas through the air
maintain their squares,
as of film framing motion.

You measure our breathing
with your meter reading.
None dare shut you up.


November 14, 2002