A Poet knows no boundaries.
She flees queues. She loses
the run of herself and comes
out nodding sagely at any half-

truths. She hears how a violin
solo becomes a little screechy.
She sees poetry beg silence
from its standpoint in the gutter,

where there is no standing room,
neither to shake oneself up nor to dust
oneself down. She revives the art
of being odd about poetry. She knows

when a risk is skewed the wrong way
round. The poet finds pictures that
undercut the moving clouds. She takes
part in the storming of the bestial

where poems tamper with life and one
slight sneeze sends words warring. Even if
the crock of gold has lost its marble top
and wordless wolf-whistles no longer

show the passing of entire lives, the Poet
knows someone, somewhere, who has
plans to annex the Atlantic. This is where
discarded poems lie, alongside sleek,

young sharks lying dying on the shingle.