Poetry Is the Smallest

Poetry is the smallest
trickle trinket
bauble burst
  the lightest                   f
windseed leaftip                 r
snowdown                         e
poetry is the breaks             e
the least loop                   d
from                             o
  the general curvature          m
into delight
poetry is
the slightest                    f
hue, hint, hurt                  r
  its dance too light            e
not to be the wind's:            e
yet nothing                      d
becomes itself                   o
without the overspill            m
of this small abundance

you don't mind, do you, I
said to the mountain, if
I use this ledge or, like, 
inspiration pavillion to say

a few things out over the 
various woods, streams, and
so on: by all means, said 
the mountain: I was a little

concerned, I said, because
the speech is, like, about              only
the individual vs the major             where
structures and, like, I                 we
                                        are
was thinking of siding with             to 
the individual: but, of                 lose
course, said the mountain:              all
well, but, I said, it                   are
                                        we
doesn't make any difference             to
what I say if it doesn't                have
make any difference: please,            here 
said the mountain, be my guest          and
                                        there
                                        a
                                        trifle
a slice of clearing                     only
widened over the ridge at               where
sundown and the sun                     we
stood in it a minute,                   are
full glow flapping up against           to
the garage and trees                    lose
and through the windows against         all
the walls and it was very nice          are
say around four twenty,                 we
gold effluvia gone                      to
by four twentyseven                     be
                                        here
                                        beholding
                                        everything
poet friend of mine's               
dick's so short                         still his fat wife's
he can't pull it long enough            radiant every morning:
to pee straight with:                   he humps well, probably,
not to pee on                           stringing her out far and
anybody by surprise                     loose on the frail hook:
sideways, he hunkers                    and, too, I notice she
into the urinal so far                  follows his words
he looks like, to achieve,              closely like one who
relief:                                 knows what a tongue can do

From The Snow Poems by A.R. Ammons

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