a poem should be a microscopic watch
worn by an invisible hand
belonging to a several-handed midget
in the somber clothes of a blackbird
hiding in the gold-frosted corn field
by a serpentine road near a quaint pond
where imaginary blue bullfrogs rhapsodize
the Sunday blues of their ancestors
who lived by that time schedule
of the microscopic watch worn by an invisible
mouse trainer who had a terrible phobia
for mixed metaphors & white cats
with silver blue eyes of the Orient