Need I another MRI, what little brain I have,
A QWERTY keyboard with a clustering of cells,
All else displaced for better room to type, so,
What now do doctors hope to find?
Can scans reveal the poetry in cells,
Read within the record of a mind,
The details of what happened in a day
As possibly the current source of pain?
Can poems be read directly from the flesh,
In letters formed on cells to spell it out?
I hope for resolution, poems and line,
Scansion for a better-metered mind.
This poem was published in Newpoetry.Net, It had been rejected by Compose Literary, The Blue Nib, and the Kenyon Review.
(Alber Camus)
POETRY, PROSE AND ANYTHING GOES 