The Poetry in Peanowicz

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.