Negative Canon

Think of it, all

the great poems

we will never read,

the uncollected gems

no one tried to publish

or those groundbreaking

verses submitted to fall

on ears that couldn’t hear

their music or genius

since no one had ever written

it before, smiled at or

applauded the blue

discomforting new,

odd aberrations evoking

miraculous celebrations

that grew into the norm

of the comfortable few,

those modern post-wandering

spontaneous rangfoo

we now crave, that anxious

reach of ghostly poems,

so edgy-honest in their silence

and loss, guaranteed to be

packing their necessary

form—the unsaid, the beautiful,

the queer—a poem.

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