Was it haiku, or tanka,
or some other short form
with a name I forget?
It was forgetful verse,
terse verse, verse with little to
say or rage about; passionless
verse claiming red was
something-or-other ruby
and summer had ended.
It blended with the scenery
amidst dislocation ennui
as seamlessly as nudity –
crudités, entrées,
but at least hiding nothing
with nothing to hide.
This must be the verse
poets compose when they
have little worth saying.
© I.D. Carswell 2007-01-24
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