Cutting Words

He’s the kind of poet

who barbers verse.

Snip here.

Layer there.

Condition and gel.

They look good

and smell good

and are welcome in polite company.

People clap at their cleverness

and return to their canapés.

But where are

the cowlicks

and dreadlocks

and unruly curls?

Where’s original wildness,

that unkempt, lawless streak

with something

true to teach?

If he’d stow the scissors

and comb words with his fingers,

tone and meter

and natural grace

might send tendrils

through his heart,

through the tight box

of his desire to please,

all the way

to

the

ground

and

beyond.

* * * *