The poem begins with
the word that means
the noun has left
the wet silence to meet us,

the flight delayed, perhaps,
the voyage slowed,
the traffic snarled, a wreck, but
the sweet guest is on
the way to our mouths.

The juice oozed from
the browning bite in
the pale Granny Smith apple on
the oak table in
the terminal coffee shop

The begins
the definite,
the ripe bride and world:
the promise of syntax,
the poem I long to live, and yet

the subtle word,
the extra letter and
the mutant ants savage us,
the e gone and
the speaker lisps.

The seed hit
the egg.
The egg grew.

The boy watched
the baby come out of
the girl.

The three of them live in
the happy white ever after on the hill.

The magic word:
the rhyme of
the first and
the third letter,
the stairway word.

The word without which I could not say
the girl I met last night has breasts as firm as
the Granny Smith apple
the man at
the next table is about to bite as I write,

(the worlds drawing closer, wed,
the big bellies of the words,
the rich pangs quicker,
the dark blood),
the poem delivered in

the word

-Mike MacMahon

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