What Do You Make Of A Poem?

What do you make of a poem?

A poem
is a poem, is a poem, is a poem.
Is that all you can make out of that?
Wherever you roam, you roam, you roam,
don’t forget to bring a hat?

A rose
is a rose, is a rose, is red, now dead.
Now what do you make out of that?
You killed it with your drool you fool;
slobber from your face you spat.

A dream
is a dream, is a dream, is a dream.
What a scene you made out of that.
You killed it with your vision, division;
television spawned the illiterate brat.

I woke up one day, saw daisies, a meadow;
a brook full of leaping trout in their raincoats,
trying to land on hooks. Caviar bellies
splash on the cement, bake in the sun.
Now what do you make out of that?

Nothing?
I see you, I dream you; you’re just fiction.
You breathe my air like gas,
pass out from fumes too real
for your kind of imagination.
So what do I make out of that?

A poem is a red rose, is a dream.
A poem is a field full of fish in raincoats.
A poem is nothing but what you see; not television,
it’s fiction, too real for your imagination.
Now what do you make out of that?