Day 29 #napowrimo Prompt: Meta poem

Where does a poem exist?
The blank ink is deflated

in its solitude, counting

how many syllables make an inch,
how many spaces make a crease,

and how many words make rain

Where, where does a poem exist?
I shut my eyes and the paper shatters

I can still touch it, let it collapse into
membranes after membranes

Is it there, that leaf hanging like a tongue?
Mocking my nuisance or the blood vessel

which has tightly wound around the femur
and refuses to now give up this new family…

Is it anywhere, anywhere at all?
Memories; perhaps, the memory
of tongue, rinsed like a blue cloth

in summer bright,
Where, where does the poem exist?
A throb spinning like a lattoo

before arriving into a thought
Is that the poem? Or is it its translation

into a verb? Murdering the soil
of sheet…