-leafing through poems found in the ether

although it may not be proper to call it the "ether,"

and it shouldn't be referred to as "leafing through."

after all, it’s not a book with pages folded,

and adhered to a spine that one can "leaf-through,"

or "fan-through" now that I think about it,

or "dog-ear" a page if one leaves the room, or place

the thing text down on the table forming a tent.

this is the twenty first century.

which brings me to the specific poem

on the screen, backlit before me.

It has a title, and the title is repeated in the first line,

which is sort-of cheating if you ask me.

and no. the poet isn’t Emily Dickinson. she’s wonderful.

and by "wonderful" I mean: filled with wonder.

she hits you with her points of view, point blank.

no messy titles whereby the reader has to

figure out how the poem meets the title by the end.

just a number. then.. POEM!

(I once wrote a poem titled: "Buick" about a "Pontiac.")

and one shouldn't "fan through" Emily Dickinson, anyway,

or "dog-ear" a page in disrespect of the page with her name on it.

use a bookmark for chrissakes.

the poet of the poem before me dedicates

the work beneath its title. it reads: “for D.B.”

the poem’s a little messy, but a pretty good read

with lots of hyphens, and plenty of adjectives,

but it offers no clue as to who the hell “D.B.” is.

If you ask me, I think “D.B.” is no longer among the living

as the poem isn’t dedicated “to” him, but “for” him,

and I say “him” because the poem has a masculine

feel to it, and whoever "D.B." is, in the end, he's no better off

than the rest of us, what with that pain-in-the-ass edict:

"for thus thou art and unto dust thou shalt return" which seems to be

a more reasonable and proper dedication for the likes of "D.B."