Paul McCormick


4: Poem is a bright river, clear and deep, flowing over smooth yellow stones
         And is a broad-leafed kite that leads the wind by the hand.

3: Poem can be read backwards and mean the same thing
         And is a lost kite with limited direction from the wind.

2: Poem is not always a poem and pools by dark rocks
         And is a knotted string inappropriate for a kite.

1: Response is a dusty riverbed with little or no stones
         And is an irrelevant idea of holding something up with the sky.



There are no philosophical truths, no truisms—only rubrics. Dawn and dusk being the interpoles of languishment. When one mistakes a Great Horned Owl for the sounding of his bird clock, we have a rubric. When one chooses a counter-top cleanser based on the content of its natural orange additive, we have a rubric. When one circumvents the parallax of his/her own tidal ubiquity, we have a rubric. The forest moves in a rubric; the meadow too.