Arse Poetica

The basic act of poetry
is shitting. No doubt
about this: it comes all out
in a lump at once, unless
the parsimonious sphincter
phrase it in dry
significant pellets which fool
no one; and at its own
convenience, which can be trained
not to embarrass, usually.
But there's no holding
it eventually back, or the blind
tide rises black
in your blood, to poison
the waterways.

Here in the latrine
of attempted forms, I rest
among pure spasms as integral
as holes, as deliberate as extrusion,
like a child at play
on an empty beach, in
his own bemuse.

Iowa      
21 Jan 69