This is a compost poem because it rose to the top of my mind from I-don’t-know-where. Somewhere, sometime, I heard someone talk about poetry being the product of consistent work rather than the result of accidental inspiration. This is not to say that accidental inspiration can’t be used in a poet’s consistent work, but accident is a pretty poor basis for anything, even a hobby, let alone a career or vocation.
poetry is not lightning
a spinal jolt of plasma that splits open
mind to the sky in random
poetry is laundry
worn piles that tumble over
and over made fresh by infinite