We see a peculiar poet blows bubbles
In a street corner to abolish stupidity,
Through his poem as an empty ritual

He blows out   bubbles of emptiness,
Like ghosts blow in the old cartoons,
Floating on no legs in tapered pants.

Beauty words fill his empty bubbles.
They are soon emptied at line’s end
His last stanza being empty epigram.

Says there is nothing little in cicada
Revving up as we blow our car horns,
He says so, in one of empty bubbles .

Here in my early dawn , cicada blows
Its bubble in predawn ritual of poem
To end up a bubble in cuckoo throat .




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