January 18, 2013

two for the morning, newspaper and bread...

“One writes a poem when one is so taken up by an emotional concept that one is unable to remain silent.” 

― Stephen Dobyns, Best Words, Best Order: Essays on Poetry

photo by Joseph Szymanski ©

between a nap and the medicine on the streets

once speeding white lab coats
form salvation in clipboards
they pool what I cared
not to remember
not to have realized
that all I had to do
was place myself
inside a place
like this so many years ago
a place where I might 
have even known 
a different yesterday 
than today

dreams are poems
yet to be
one verb
after another
crescendo nouns
every description
every way to pile them
atop each other
they become destinations
like turtles’ connecting to infinity
poems turn up in places
where you least expect them to be
just as the Universe
contains a math we cannot see
very well when near
one of its perfections
a poem will say
how will we ever know
how subtle, a sharp cloud can be
how can we tell if
mother nature is painting
or merely wringing out the rain

so poem, there you are
at the window again
and I mutter something
accidentally grabbing
the nurse’s attention
she looks at me
waiting to provide
I smile, like you
nowhere left, to hide


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