Ingratiated
You would pay $10 a line, $300 minimum, for this
One you call poetry
Which is what really, but words, in lines, stanzas you say
Not sentences
Which is cultivated and preposterous
Is invited to parties in lofts she doesn’t want to go to
But she’ll have a pinot and strum along
Cultivating her olfactory prescriptions and wince when the
marrow hints too close to the bone
Turning on the Presentiment’s rantings and shower her succulents
with water from thimbles
Streaming Netflix and lighting candles
Who is she, this glissading One
Tape measure in hand
Measuring time and rhyme
Existing in wordly essence
Deciding
What unsearchable meter to conquer next.
