when poetry met prose, she expected him
to cradle her quietly among his sentences,
to fill in her gaps with a mosaic of musty
love songs & leftover lullabies. but prose
wanted perfection: to frame every letter
into paper thrones & imprison every flaw
in honey-coated coffins. poetry had too
many fault lines in the atria of her jumbled
heart, her quiet prayers beating in rhythm
to her muffled footsteps. follow the ticking
of winged clocks, the slight cranny left
between a period & the next capital letter.
a beginning after the end. why does prose
still go on. it’s autumn & they stand before
a trail of withered leaves. prose wanted to
go straight forward, poetry wanted a break.
so they parted ways into separate worlds,
                                                      discontinuous.