there are those who lay bricks
there are those who break rocks with picks
there are those who work on assembly belts
there are those who care for children
there are sex workers
and there are those who make poems
turn on the belt and begin
the great clacking of the typewriter
smashing at the rock in the paper
thumping at the door in the paper
pushing at the bird in the paper
shaping and re-shaping the poem
holding it up to the light
there is the carpenter
and then further along down the river is the poet
filling up, systematically
the clean white rectangle
clang clang clang
his silver hammer arcs high in the sun
as he cracks through the mica surface
jang jang jang
as he shatters the diamonds there
looking for bright
truths
poetry is
manual labour
~ from Blue Pyramids (ECW Press, 2002)
