What is it but a drowned rat
in the mouth of a strangled cat

What is it but a broken vase
holding the deaths of life’s stars

How can it be
this, poetry

How can it sing
this impossible thing

Words have no meaning
until they’re written
and even then
they, like a rose
wither and die
to kiss
you and I
with death’s stagnant breath
to poetize
our meaning