Remedy For Illness
New life may fall to the pale poem
when tucked into a deskdrawer
or beneath the bed.
The poem needs some time
on its own, preferably in the dark.
Dead silence come
before the ringing of its bells
clapping loudly the silver gong.
To burst out or break up or purify
and heal its wounds it must lie still
like a rock at the bottom of the sea.
Some remedy as well may come
with the momentary turning
the poem over, poking the back with a stick
as though to wake it, shouting
in its direction some line
from Chatterton or turning clockwise
the reverse side while looking away
may limber the lines.
To rumple the page, toss it over one's right
shoulder into the waste basket
requires a good aim and courage.
Pouring on the verse spring water
may invite the words to bloom.
Add two drops of lavender oil.
Spritz the words, or simply open the line
like a locked window and cry
as one might call for a lost dog.
Ernest Slyman
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