Textual Autotomy

Prose can’t do it as well—
Too cubic, brick-like, shelled—
But verse is always lithe,

Skiing in tracks that knife
Through air and down the page,
More like lizards or snakes,

Whips, distracting motions
For misleading notions
Of where their middles are.

Snap at a cursive arc,
And you’ve snipped tail from whole,
But verse preserves the soul.