That carries through to the next line,
The kind that makes it hard to read aloud
Without explaining the fact,
Without explaining just how gushing and disobedient the poetic structure is.
PRAXIS, MOTHER FUCKERS:
That’s the name of my poem.
And it will be delivered in an earnest, breathy voice,
The kind that makes it hard to hear out loud
Why the poet is speaking
In an earnest, breathy voice.
And it will circulate widely,
If not to Ploughshares
Then at least to The Pittsburgh Quarterly,
The kind of home it always wanted:
In the Allegheny sun,
Nestled in the warm steel scaffolding
Of an urban renewal project,
Without a thought in its head.