The Size of a Poet
I’m a titch like a detritivous dust-mite,
Yet taller than a boiler-hauled trawler.
Little like the winter mice’ whittling bites,
Brained bigger than a floor-fallen brawler.
I have stories smaller than memoried whales,
More shallow than trills of the trenches they’ve seen.
But my weather is the wind in their tow'ring tails,
And we're tuned by the lies laid by those same submarines.
One day I'll be sea-sized and shaled with loot;
I'll look fond through palm fronds as poor as a pond.
A tale in the gauze jaws of larval brutes,
When lures limped by my eyes too small to respond.
I will be brassy like cows chewing dew,
Strange like your mammalian four-legged desk.
In my dray I feel sometimes I'm not in life's stew,
And I’ll be smaller in there than the lonely drones grown,
by cells of electricity in Battersea's beastly eggs.
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