Animal

A poem is an animal,
Graceful when alive.
The pleasure is in watching it
Run and leap and dive.

When dead it's beauty disappears.
It's just a hunk of meat.
No longer there to be admired,
Only there to eat.

Or, if you must, dissect its flesh;
A jar for every part.
An hour spent studying the lungs,
Two more for the heart.

The function of each tiny piece
Can be fully told.
But this is only possible
When they are still and cold.

But do we need to understand
This wondrous mystery?
Won't it do to know it works, and
Simply let it be?

A poem is an animal,
Graceful when alive.
When killed by explanation,
It's beauty cannot thrive.