He who pulled paragraph like espresso
died of old age with a thousand
boxes of bound alphabet in his shed.
Periods are enemies he would tell us
and semi-colons, a constipation.
Believe in exclamation!
Guard the little swatch
of fabric you find in grasses,
imagining it as scarf or chemise.
Read it like a basket.
Invite grasshoppers and crickets to the critique.
And, if they sing you will know it is good.
Trust the line.
Trust the hem.
Trust the wind-step whisking.
Trust the song of thyself.
Stand on your shaky metaphors
until bullfrog leaps from lotus—
generosity burning wellspring in your cheeks.