wishing away the bars
James Dickey stood there full of himself
bulging from his 63 years.
We kept time with his meter
as he fought the slipping of his pants.
The podium wood ornate
shrank before him chiseled by his voice.
He was the words the sound
he was articulation—
Casting images sharp as hooks
reeling in each of our imaginations.
Then he drew his ink-filled arrow
lowering it even with our skulls,
To pierce our preconceptions
to twist the complacent looks our faces.
Ultimately he wished away the bars
the black steel bars our cages.
So we joined hands for the hymnal
we paced the aisles panthers.
He adjusted his pants one last time
denying the weight his years.
"Poetry" he drawled laughing
the final word stirred by his own wit.
We left with his incisions on our brains
the strong sloping face,
The huge gentle hands like wings
the magnificent agony of sincere