Gather the right words, and for spice, a few wrong ones.
Put them lovingly, leapingly together
and let them fly free from the dark, dank ditch you’re in.
They won’t help you get out.
That’s not what this is about.

They’ll fill the world with beauty,
but the world doesn’t know what to do with beauty.
Can’t sell it. Can’t buy it.
Can’t use it to sell anything
above sticker price or buy it below.

The few who get it will be stunned, unable to function.
When the words return, arrange them into a bed
and sleep on them. Bouquet them. Arrange them
into dreams and let them break you all the way down.
Re-arrange them into a new poem,

and then another, and another, and–