Wednesday, March 24, 2010

Poem


Poem


Some poems name their subjects.
The titles are On this or On that,
or they hang like small marquees
indicating what is playing inside:
"Celibacy," "Ostriches at Dusk."

Other poems fall into it as they go along.
You trip over a word while carrying
a tray of vocabulary out to the pool
only to discover that broken glass
is a good topic.

Still others have no subject
other than themselves to gnaw on.
The fly lands on the swatter.
The movie runs backwards
and catches fire in the projector.
This species apes us well
by talking only by itself.

Such is often the case with poems
afflicted by the same plain title
as this one:
a sign by the road announcing a bump.


Billy Collins

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