Poems, Potatoes

The word, defining, muzzles; the drawn line

Ousts mistier peers and thrives, murderous,

In establishments which imagined lines

Can only haunt.  Sturdy as potatoes,

Stones, without conscience, word and line endure,

Given an inch.  Not that they're gross (although

Afterthought often would have them alter

To delicacy, to poise) but that they

Shortchange me continuously:  whether

More or other, they still dissatisfy.

Unpoemed, unpictured, the potato

Bunches its knobby browns on a vastly

Superior page; the blunt stone also.