In god’s gleaming empire, herds of triceratops

lunge up on their hind legs to somersault

around the plains. The angels lie in the sun

using straight pins to eat hollyhocks. Mostly

they just rub their bellies and hum quietly

to themselves, but the few sentences

they do utter come out as perfect poems.

Here on earth we blather constantly, and

all we say is divided between combat

and seduction. Combat: I understand you perfectly.

Seduction: Next time don’t say so out loud.

Here the perfect poem eats its siblings

in the womb like a sand shark or a star turning

black hole, then saunters into the world

daring us to stay mad. We know most of our

universe is missing. The perfect poem knows

where it went. The perfect poem is no bigger

than a bear. Its birthday hat comes with

a black veil which prattles on and on about

comet ash and the ten thousand buds of

the tongue. Like people and crows, the

perfect poem can remember faces and hold

grudges. It keeps its promises. The perfect

poem is not gold or lead or a garden gate

locked shut or a sail slapping in a storm.

The perfect poem is its own favorite toy.

It is not a state of mind or a kind of doubt

or a good or bad habit or a flower of any

color. It will not be available to answer

questions. The perfect poem is light as dust

on a bat’s wing, lonely as a single flea.