Like a Metaphor:

What is a poem but a captured thought–
a pointed gun, a barrel smoking,
here it lies in front of us, and presently
we decide to not prolong its suffering.

Why interrupt these flying things?

Why read, why write, why take out gaudy yellow pens
and highlight for the sake of erudition?
Why paraphrase that which has been doted on
already? Afraid, are we,
to lose sight of the fleeing bodies?
So comb the field and hear only:
a humble squeak, a flapping wing,
and find after a somber search–
feathers, drops of blood.

“Why so many questions?”
you might ask.
“Inquiries,” I point out,
owning the sentimental idea
that language is a bouquet,
and we shall not sample
just anything
for its own sake.