[from Jack Spicer's My Vocabulary Did This to Me: Collected Poems, Wesleyan, 2008]
When you break a line nothing
There is no new (unless you are humming
Old Uncle's Tom's Cabin) there is no new
You breathe the same and Rimbaud
Would never even look at you.
Like you could cut a grapefruit
It go to sleep for you
And each line (There is no Pacific Ocean) And make each line
Cut itself. Like seaweed thrown
Against the pier.