the poem it builds
it don't care what else you doin'
it forms
it shapes
it finds what to grow on
what to cut away
it don't use your fancy kitchen knife
it use that black glass
obsidian
it shapes the black glass
to its own hand
nevermind yours
and then it cuts
trims away fat
slashes off the soft meat
leaves you the strong meat
meat worn by walking
by running maybe
by getting itself into trouble
and finding its way back
meat attached to the bone
when it's done the poem
stands carved to its minimum
when you're wise you take it
just like it is
when you're not
you add frosting
beware
I have told you
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