The way verse is written.

Light as a feather that fails

to excite the hippopotamus

in my mind’s eye,

Blind as a bat that breaks

whenever it strikes out

in my baseball bowl

So do the words

through my tongue

Into the microphone

Of my desire.

Green with damp,

Drizzled down

the neck of the verse.

Weathered the space

between gestation,

articulation

and dimples.

The way a dung beetle

saves civilised & uncivilised

life.

Beacons.

High as a kite that soars,

slips and slides on a draught of thin air.

Low as a blow from a black bird,

from a messenger

that delivers tidings,

from your mother’s,

mother’s mouth?

She had her own microphone,

her own mouthpiece,

her paragraphs.

Light and blind,

High and low

Hippopotamus and hippopotami.

It’s the way verse is written.