And when I say poem

I mean this thing I want to write and no other You will not be so clever as to resurrect the feathered the tatty wings of a costumed angel in my dining room tatty spatial realm room where I exist and look at things and eat them and float nine inches above the floor and no one else need know and no other poet will do The poet will do what the poet will do and mime or maim the poet meme—in fancy venue or classroom or focus group the wings of the poet relax and warm and shed and oracular shit out the window in a pile by the side of the road and the commitment of the poet to engage, subvert, refract, or remand is safe in my vagina at last where it belongs.