Two Poems

Elaine Equi

This Is Not a Poem

the poem exists
always and only
in the mind
of the reader

and these words
can never be more than
arrows, breadcrumbs

a map of abbreviations
however crude or elaborate

the poem comes into being
as the writer reads
and the reader anticipates

one can fill every inch
with writing and still
be no closer to the poem

as it lies there
a liar with a beautiful voice
that is often mistaken for silence

Poem

Like a window
open in winter

I look to the edge of
hair, teeth, nails

Too busy to be internal
libido calmly rushes

in one orchard
and out another

Its knotted weather
spreads brightly.

Its peach thread melody
is squandered away.