A poem is like a tree. It is like a tree
with interchangeable squirrels.
It is like a tree with squirrels dangling
in the manner of Christmas lights
shaped like red-hot chili-peppers.
The peppers are also tiny identical hats
for the Pan-Germanic Marching Band,
which is also in the tree, although
somewhat obscured by the vast &
infinitely complex system of levers,
pulleys & other mechanical devices
used to operate the tree, which moves
its arms rather slowly up & down.
Limbs, I should have said, it moves
its limbs up & down as if conducting
an orchestra, or leading a pan-germanic
marching band to ultimate victory over
the bands of the other competing tribes
with their identical hats in the shapes
of hanged squirrels. Also, whenever
the wind blows, there is a sound from
inside the tree, a sound most scholars
(myself included) agree is the sound
of a small poem being popped open.