The Poetry in Peanowicz

The poetry in Peanowicz
is not poetry, that is said.

It is learned, it is spurned.
It is inserted. That is

it’s read. The poetry
in Peanowicz did not begin,

a non-occurring ointment not
to be reversed. It was. It is.

Even as, it is rehearsed.

The poetry in Peanowicz
pursues a reason as if air.

A logic’s din, a logic’s
dark, reserving force of

monolingual care. Are they
sound names, they, which each

Peanowiczer poet receives?

Parallel, found. Variable,
bound—Peanowiczer poet,

he believes.

The poetry in Peanowicz
rescinds a conceptual farce,

well? A contusion in
confusion, in letters

faced with betters,

Peanowiczer poetry pops con-
joined to a fever’s ready phrase.

The poetry in Peanowicz
has no asking point to quell—

The poetry in Peanowicz is not
poetry. That’s a yell.