Some believe
poetics don’t exist on paper,
but that such knowledge 

expresses and uncovers
with trust in sixteen gigs
of Apple unified memory,

running over terabytes of solid
state drives through Vermont
approaching a hardware store

to juice machines for a Thermos full 
of coffee beans grown in Jamaica,
but roasted locally by nuns 

that
took a vow
of silence.  

Others
carry a leafy notebook
with which perhaps to begin

on a new subject, a man
nagging our heels
burned and kicked out of comfort,

modified by a participial phrase—-
The Great Beowulf
running down a gangrel creature,

the foul, furry Grendel!
Swift tearing off his arm in blankest verse
in gore we are

alerted to
the roughest art 
of prosody.

Anapest!  Budapest!  On the Danube!  You see?