Two or more poems indeed! And well cast, even down to the visual basics of the lines/stanzas matching the halt-swagger that such as the avuspenqueonatus afforded, and the clipped-wing syndrome that reenforces the 'forgotten how to fly' assessment. I think that the visual to any poem offers some aspects of enjoyment and pause that cannot be found in any of the rest of a poem's wherewithal. I am not, though I think that maby I should be, a fan of poems being wrought of colored inks/papers, or overtly cast in shapes, but do feel that how a poem 'looks' is meaningful in itself.

Do not have the time to be even reasonable thorough with this post, so I will just dove-tail part of the poem's opening line with its final stanza, as I think that doing so can effect a sort of precis about what the poem is 'about'.

"They've been handing out pamplets" / "that all plots, all poems, all struggles must end?" The mixed sentience of "They" is born out as a serial of linguistic tracks filled variously with eggs past, eggs present, and the stalled Scrooge-wise of what may hatchen next - wish I had the time to flesh-out that claim, but must leave it to you other readers to make your own case in this.

"Pamplets" to the end of 'plots, poems, struggles; one senses a huge potential truth to all this, one that is not dependent on the prior dynamics that these items snagged into their panchronic fore, a truth that could well make of us the black hole of resignation about the human status in the scheme of things. As one absurdist put it, "life is not absurd, but very, very difficult". This poem suggests that brand of reality very well. "Pamplets" are reductive peckings with some agenda in the offing, or some balance/over-balance to either provolk or settle some argument, to amend (dis- or re) some other humanate along its natural, occulted, or happenstance way. "Pamplets" are the first and last refuge that evolk the minimalist to whatever is in question: in this the status and regard of poetry is put in danger. Poetry is eclectic anyway, a hard-sell, but very beloved, and worth all preservation. The generic forces about us in this world are a threat to that preservation.

Outta time.

Best to all, and Carpe Verve.