The Words
Where have the words goneWere they washed away by perspirationWere they swimming free like CodAvoiding the inspiration of poeticTrawler netsA catch instead of seaweed , floating , tauntingAs syllables use the tongue as a springboardDiving into a molasses of thought Were words thrust into a frying panCoated with virgin olive oilHarvested under the Tuscan SkyWhere poets toss rhyme until golden brownAnd baked to perfectionWrapped in Muslin cloth for lunchWith a bottle of Chianti stowedOn a rickety boat sailed into oblivion