I am a poet along the lines of a wingless bird or a
depetaled flower. Have you ever seen such flightless fluttering? 
such a waterlogged rot of thinking feeling? 
I want a certain quality of the
poetic. 

These clever, chemical sensations 
lodged between me and my stomach lining
overcrowd the stanza, where poetry should dwell, 
bathysphere for the inscrutable, inhospitable soul. 

Yet fault not feeling, nor the earthbound earthborn 
nature of our dwelling. Lament the navel's cord clipped 
prematurely, and earthy ears once versed in sounds of 
heaven.