#poetic form golden shovel

a golden shovel poem after william carlos williams’ so much depends

I am too tired for creativity, so
I am leaning into intertexuality, much
like another poet might call upon
the old standbys of form, the wheel-
and-axel of stress and syllable, row
after row after row, old bones glazed
with new shades of meaning, with
coy glints of connotation, linguistic reign
and poetic license turning wine into water
and back again— self, this is beside
the point. you’re losing the
thread again. focus again on the white
fluff of feathers. this is supposed to be a poem about chickens.