A poem a day? For February? Why for? I say:
For slip happens more than catch & grasp mars even with tenderness. For wrap cares more than embrace when all is said & gone. For the hand breathes elephant trunks that lift, shower, & cradle.
For justice divests blindfold & balance to witnesses the kiln firing. For the medicinal claim declares neither reparations nor manumit. For the lesion that rips the nerves open. For the deceives we suffer. For semipermeable wonders.
For months waked & wordless turns matters blasphemous & messages plunderers. For hanging threads demand the mangle-truth. For the hack who repairs more softly than the cutter. For the oil-pastel tucks under the mechanic’s workbench. For form boxes the unexpected, aligns the discoveries.
For lilac, seven years fallow, blossoms liquids of warm scents in spring air. For canvas & piano & clay puckers inside poems—mouthed or minded. For tremulous kisses’ lockings beneath Corinthian columns.
For beckon retorts even when satisfied. For flushed skin around the hip of the hot Saki carafe. For book & tongue saturates ecclesiastic & sensual aural & oral awe. For what poses fascinations beyond the wet-spot.
For any more & less moots the Golden Mean. For the nothing nothings, yet poetry, somehow something, silks harangued scatters of mood. For subconscious, shuttering bellies ovulate only so long. For the trunk & handle of the grave seems a still mistake.
For those & despite those & for many more those, I will muster.