To a Writer

I love your verbs.
I love your adverbs.
I love your abs.
The musculature
of your guts.
I hate your guts.
You send me
to the dictionary,
which I love.
The way your I's
my own deepest
darkest first person
is uncanny.
I can't get you out of
your short stories
and into my poem.
But I can try.
I love your choices.
The way they ripple,
and push
every edge.
The way they branch
and brachiate.
Each choice like
a horse chestnut
with its own pair
of seed-leaves inside,
like testicles,
containing whole

The proper unfolding
of a tightly bound chronology
stricken from the milky way
hurling to the heart
recognized as a seedling
of a thought
writ small
and reflected large
in hairline prose.