poetry is nothing but sod
a layer of grass
a soft sheath of life
on a crust of earth
grown stale
leaving want
for the substance within
poetry has no molten core
no sediment in layers
like lava cake
with its liquid heart
no caverns
no tunnels to explore
like honeycomb wisps
riddled with air
poetry is nothing but sod
on a crust of earth
grown stale
for stuffing birds
for scatterings of croutons
on measly salads
poetry itself is inedible
unless you are a cow
it’s good for stomping upon
with my big boots
for sifting for clover
but it’s still sod
nothing more
~ Leila Currah