This clever acrostic poem showed up in my inbox this morning via Rattle.com, and I loved it immediately. It pokes the bruise of common attitudes toward poetry. It was worth a reblog today.
NATIONAL POETRY MONTH
April is tax month, the month you take off your snow
Tires, the month moths rediscover your windows.
It was the cruelest month for Eliot, but he lived in England.
Night in the rain the salamanders crawl out to be slaughtered,
All of their pink meat road smorgasbord eaten by dawn.
Laughter sounds its most brutal in crows. No, […read the rest by clicking here]