TO BE SUNG

I had to write a poem
like a god, like a god song
like a song
like a song sung on hands & knees
the rusted scrape dwelling in
bearing down on hands & knees
the morbid squeak, a flanging down
like a song, as like in a song
sung from your belly, your face down
to the parchment transforming
pen marks into words & notes
on hands & knees, on your belly
like a song, like a song
stone cold fur, the empty rectangle
tiny black marks
like a song