Poetry is the art of condensing the essential:
My nuts and bolts speaking
To your nuts and bolts,
No flesh or earth allowed.
It is in the love of nuns for a three-figured God
As much as cherry blossoms, orange peels,
All the times we said “No.”
It breathes and pulses like no other entity,
Clouding the planet with heady incense—
Alluring like sex and far more dangerous yet
Poetry is not near us, it is us–
So many houses with the roofs
Blown off, top floors open
And gaping at the sun.