This is not a contract. It is not signed
in ink, let alone sealed by blood. One word
follows another, as does one breath. Hot
air. So much is poetry: a kettle
to the age of steam. While engines clamour,
my voice boils down to bluff, spit and stammer.
Though I wield the same pen as a story-
teller, I do not demand suspension
of disbelief. Far from it: please question
each flowered verse. Uproot weeds from between
flagstones of syntax. Remain unconvinced,
dear reader. Be the one to sneer and wince.
Too many lines for a sonnet. Too few
allusions for the deeper truth on which
a volta spins. Sixpence, jolly sixpence:
a schoolyard chant lingers longer. Clapping
songs, dip-dip-sky-blue. Recalled more clearly
than Shakespeare. Not better, no. But nearly.
