Idle Speculation

A poem or a footprint —
ground beneath either one
shakes and forms around its edge,
its rim of influence.

What if it’s
a bad poem? What if it is
a toxic print, made by someone
who had evil intent?

No matter — a bad poem
will erase itself, lifting itself
as if it had been made
on one of those magic erase boards —

raise the clear skin,
it vanishes.

No matter — a poisoned print
will wear down, become
one with clean earth —
any trace of it will disappear.

As will I,
one day. Perhaps soon.

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T