In the Book

The poem sits
dead. It's innards are
frozen. The grass
is passing
through it's skin.
.
The poem is a shadow
covering tunnels
leading to little rooms
with tiny tables on which
are boxes. It's uneven
in its fog. Crisp
edges emerge when
the light shifts
and some of what
is suddenly seen
frightens.
.
The poem
is a tiny bird.
The warm workings of its
life grind and slide,
lubricated by rusty
water from the sea.