Poetry Was Meant To Be Discarded Valentine

But poetry itself is a metaphor a man
Employing millions of worker metaphors
In his vast warehouses constantly
Being shipped out into the inner spaces
Of the world a package arriving
In a secure place hidden
Behind the rosemary bush
Two books a fat one and a thin one
One says too little one too much
Reminding me to bring I must
Some of that scent into the house
And to discard the books somehow
Release the metaphors from their mornings
And let the real shrub speak