I was on a hill,
reading
from a book containing
a poem by Allen Ginsberg,
about sitting on a hill
with Jack Kerouac,
and how they were looking
at a metallic sunflower
powdered with the dust of
industry,
and I wondered whether
they too
had seen things
in dusty trees that
you people
wouldn't believe
or
wood...
not leaf alone.
As I leafed through
a few more pages,
more images blossomed,
and I wondered whether
poetry,
as a rule of fingers
and thought,
blooms and grows
forever.
Jeffrey Philip Clegg
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/wood-or-wouldn-t/
