The poetry in Peanowicz
is not poetry,
that is said.
It is learned, it is spurned.
It is inserted. That is
it’s read. The poetry
in Peanowicz did not begin, a non-
occurring ointment not
to be reversed.
It was. It is. Even as,
it is rehearsed.
The poetry in Peanowicz
pursues a reason
as if air.
A logic’s din, a logic’s
dark, reserving force of
monolingual care.
Are they sound names, they,
which each
Peanowiczer poet receives?
Parallel, found.
Variable, bound—
Peanowiczer poet,
he believes.
The poetry in Peanowicz
rescinds a conceptual farce,
W–EL–L?
A contusion in confusion,
in letters
faced with betters,
Peanowiczer poetry pops
conjoined
to a fever’s ready phrase.
The poetry in Peanowicz
has no asking
point to quell—
The poetry in Peanowicz
is not poetry.
That’s a yell.