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There’s a poem buried down deep under this poem Stretching and yawning in the thick, fertile loam. And it doesn’t bother with rhyme scheme Or meter, or other sundry affairs But it can roam and roam and roam. There’s a poem buried deep down under this poem Its nights are long and it ‘s sad and alone And yet unpretentious, Sensual, and slow And it gets down into your soul, soul, soul. There’s a poem buried deep down under this poem With the face of a white man and the throat of a toad It’s got some few warts And it carries heavy loads But out in the wind it can roll, roll, roll. There’s a poem buried deep down under this poem Lost in bubble and ferment and growth It waits for life’s summer And an old man’s smile And the hands of one who will sit and listen awhile. Matthew Zathe Daniels, Montevideo, Uruguay |
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