It’s breathwork to play with syntax
Like underwater synastry of phrasing
The cadence is a cukoo of metre
I refuse consensus of syllable-count
I’m articulate without parameters
A free-verse bird’s call, a terrible fret
Of the higher forms of expression
A particular stanza, the way the wind blows
Agreeable in a certain slant of light
It’s breathtaking to shape music
And juggle fiction like ethereal plot
The trees, they have a last-chance
Threshold of dispossessing the wind
The poet, purifies language
In ceremony that ponders our hulking innocence
Those parts in us which are still raw
To the core of world-class lyrical topography.
Wuji Seshat 