like Keats, his name writ in water,
a see-through poem,
weightless, long-sighted as a Machars' landscape,
soundless, like a crowd after a bomb;
a buoyant poem, like a bubble in the sea,
as dense as the Emperor’s new clothes;
a poem that you can read poems through
in an anthology of illegibles;
lines never to be violated by human eye,
unglanced by photons on a ride from the stars;
a night poem, in league with empty parsecs,
sucked into a singularity;
a poem that never wanted read, a free poem
by a free poet, adrift on a sea of inkless ink,
uncarved on the bark of trees.
The only poem collected
that has never been.