Carl Leggo


I want to be a verb, since for too long I have

been written a noun only, but no longer satisfied 

with being the name, the namer, the named, 

I want to name endlessly, be the verb's verve

like Rita's photographs, poetry pushes at edges 

into spaces where language refuses clarity, 

coherence, composition, even comprehensibility, 

amidst literally infinite alliterative possibilities

like holograms, the part in the whole,

rhizome connections in the earth,

the sheer certitude of everything spilling

and spelling out in fractal inevitability

as poems refuse to be consumed, preclude 

easy access, even a ready location for readers

who are invited to find, if they can, their positions

for responding in a tantalizing textualizing 

as poems invite the words to flow around  

the reader, even in and through the reader

who must surrender the desire to hold the text 

in place, must carry the memory of mystery

and sift the fragments like hypertextual links

to somewhere untracked to other places,

like e. e. cummings, somewhere i have never 

travelled, gladly beyond