Classic Poem

This poetry gets bored of being alone,
it wants to go outdoors to chew on the winds,
to fill its commas with the keels of rowboats
and its periods
with rolled tobacco leaves.
Wet its tongue where feet, hands, faces, wheels
and fruits have plunged.
It will adhere to sea rocks
swarming with foam
to stir up the center of the lust
that incites chaotic conceptions.

This poetry gets bored of being alone,
it has already gone off
streaming from red acorns,
gone through the palmgroves
calling out to tangible things, the poor shack, the roadside inn,
to the ears of spellbinding women
And, into the halfmoon earrings of a pampered young one,
thrown its freedom to the sea,
as out of its own mouth the river's body flows.