Hot Pursuit


I would forego the rhyme
for metaphor uncompromised
but it just kind of finds me.
Not that I'm publishing my location;
I guess it just
reads between the lines.


Where does your loyalty lie?
With imagery
or with symmetry?
With simile
or with chimes?
And can they co-exist
without fighting
for space,
for eyes?


I reach the conclusion and,
too often decide,
that poetry is illusion:
a masquerade
for blank faces.
An oasis
for parch-tongued bandits,
stranded on
inexpressive sands.


Maybe that's why
we keep chasing:
because the mirage
always reappears,
somehow more believable
than before.



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