Just Get to the Point

Most language is so
Fragmentary—spoken
Or signed, conversation

In dialogue or groups,
Fluttering in oneself—
Hardly a thought’s finished,

Hardly a sentence done
Before interrupted,
Or it breaks itself off

Into its pre-fab chunks,
And the whole thing’s a race
Of leap-frogging intents.

Maybe poems weren’t ever
Meant to mimic music
But these choppy rhythms

Of small talk, hey? You know,
Like when, the first person,
No! Are you serious?