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.