The Perfect Poem?

Appendages


Now comes this
fluted follicle
to separate

and choose:
his horn between
the lilting seam,

his tongue
inside the plume.

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Appendages, the perfect poem. And why, some might ask? And I would ask, why not? If I had to explain it how could you learn? Suffice to say that every syllable counts, every morpheme, phoneme, and consonant counts. Imagine everything in the language screwing everything on my page, and still you don't get my drift? Let's say it's a little incestuous behavior on the page. Or maybe a lot. Add some symmetry. Balance. And I humbly submit to you, well, I guess, not that humbly, that this is the only perfect poem I have ever written or seen. A practice, an exercise in perfection. I remember the teacher teaching this poem in one of his classes. Nobody knew it was me, that it was mine. But I did. And now you know, too.