English Poetry I

English Poetry One, Chaucer to Gray,

That’s breakfast, lunch, and dinner every day.

I peel it to the middle, and there sits

The meadiest sweet of all, sans the pits.

William, tucked ripe, between the bitter skins

Of lesser moved, less passioned, more locked in

Souls who tried to force their pens to glide o’er

The pages of inconsequential shores.

I thank the heavens for the open tongue

Of one whose booted poems keep me undone,

And for the fiery freedom that still lives

To any willing to throw their heart out,

Over beyond what Fate may simply give.

-jenn long