There is no such thing as a poem: There are truths bled out through ink-stained hands; there are Amish tables polished clean through much erasure; there are puddles of words, vomited forth in ecstatic catharsis; there are monsters, unleashed by Frankensteins with pens; there are wild apples, sown by the mad; and tame roses, forced to fit syllabic trellises; but there is no such thing as a poem.