Because it is born of itself parthenogenically.
Because of its innate nonchalance.
Because its orography is a cordillera of designation, assurance and oath.
Because the word haptic comes up again, all chummy, as if
it were softer than touch.
Because it loves Hecate, the Undead’s goddess.
Because, stygian, it leads to further darkness, and
it would ride Bucephalus into the wilderness, if it could.
Because in it, troglodyte is more than three syllables of brute.
Because it lays the word damask on its dream table, and
later, uses metaphor to wipe it’s dainty lips.
Because in its own atelier, a poem is never effete.
Because it can asseverate to epiphany.
Because it will sometimes sacrifice premise to praxis, like this.