old poem from a jaded year, about poetry...

How much leeway would you give
a poet,
for perpetuating inspiration through the ages?
What lusts
would you allow him to feed, if he feeds the world
what?
What if she’s a confessionalist?  What if he’s like me?  Would you have to
eat the plate it was served on?  What constitutes

a poem?
“The sky’s the limit.”  What constitutes

a work of art, which you frame?
      “One person’s trash…”

Shall I just      toss these scraps of paper
onto a large, blue one, and call them fish?
      Or maybe waves?

Let’s say these

      dice      represent

                  icy chance.

Let’s say the board is

      the dance floor of life.

Cold/hot romance the issue.

Jangle keys and a lock unclicks.

Jangle keys and a car begins

to exhale.