The Crush

poetry isn't simply a spurious assemblage of words
but the magical cursive filament of a smiling deity,
physics enveloping populations in deadly radioactivity,
the careful dainty padding of feline alacrity,
mausoleums centuries tall reaching to the moon,
the infinite space within a raindrop.

so, to all the scribblers, beware posthaste:
either delicate bluebell, or towering sequoia;
both lacking historical precedent
will crush you between parentheses,
bookends, and especially
loving embraces.