Mostlywhat i want in thisis recognition, my words to greet youfrom a distancewith a wave, to be friends up close.To be honeyspiralling onto toast, that goldand translucenta strand of truth, words the tasteof what they say, purehoney on your tongue, to comefrom clovervia bees. To be food.
Young, Deanna. "Mostly" Drunkard's Path. Wolfville: Gaspereau Press, 2001.
PoemophobiaThere are people walking the streets of the cityreciting poems under their breath. Poemsthey have written or read, made up of wordsso specific, none could be changed without grave damageto the whole; nor the soul of the matter explainedwithout some great symphony of nakedness writhing.They walk by your doorstep, you do not wave.You suspect they might be crazy, and they might.You distrust the subtle movements of their lipsand I don't blame you. I would do the same.What choice do we have in a world of door-to-doorsermons, dressed up like truth in black and white.I hear you. No poems are safe. Good night.
Young, Deanna. "Poemophobia" Drunkard's Path. Wolfville: Gaspereau Press, 2001.