A poem from correspondent Karl Parker dedicated to yours truly and my little dog, too:

Romantic Movement

I have to wait ‘til the goddamned trees speak to me
before I can go on, you know, proceed.

Giddy to go by, I ride and ride and ride and ride
until the sun or something of the sort takes me down.

Do la-la, I do la-la by the brook. Fusky stuff.
Ripples in puddles, or nerves across a surface, slow.

We go down to soon go by. We go by and by.
Weeds wreck an angle I am taking to arrive

somewhere close to here, transformed, among friends.
Another self, another time of day, another sound.

Grood Poet No. 5, and the last I'll discuss in such terms, is Claudia Rankine. Commentary to follow.