The Cryptic Afterlife of Poems

As a pretext for introspection,

Heresy, romantic projections,

Poetry signifies anything

From protest, faith, lust, divine wisdom,

Beauty, friendship, prophecy, glory,

And doesn’t even have to exist

Except as bywords for all of this—

Sheer poetry, poetic—whereas,

In the flesh, somewhat less than mortal,

Attractive as exoskeletons,

Cracked shells left in the dust—intricate,

Often, yes, a bit informative

About the lives that sloughed off our husks,

And in rare cases, a specimen

Worth preserving for illustration,

But not the same as a living thing

And no more truly immortal than

Our basilisks and salamanders.

Poetry’s the myth of poetry,

On the one hand, and a frayed record

Of successive stages from small lives

On the other. Our one wonderment

Left in chitinous, cast-off patterns,

Lies in how, still, dead phrasings cipher.