Just Poetry

His life reduced
to the sum of his words:
a febrile patchwork
of repetitions
and revisions:

this, Africa's brow
or I'm more bristled
than a toothbrush tip,
every time she mints
new tender with her lips.

No, his life was never
the brink of breathlessness,
a kitchen sink,
plunged, whirling down
to depthlessness.

His is only poetry.
Just poetry. Merely words.
But you're impressed
with what you've heard, when
it's more what you haven't
that's nearer the truth.