I comb through poems as a fastidious creature—a little
restless, looking for one gem.
There’s science to it.
With needing a creature, with seeing a face, I speculate
on dreams, outcomes, waves & arts.
Loving seems vulnerable, intimate, it becomes freedoms
& cogitation.
I never understood flowers, deciduous petals, stems
with compass life.
In needing unsaid creature, I forfeited inclusion.
Surreal desire is esoteric. Love has remained invisible.
Bulbous mirrors, reflecting like mimics, making more
of perception, if we might fly.
I nibble grass, palm dirt, examine an anthill. I laugh
without noticing. I remember Proverbs.
And still, poetry evades me—until, spirit is ignited.
One must be in soul to read poetry.
Love would sing by silence, a sound made terrific,
misleading & cagey.
It seems appropriate—we read each other’s work, we
cull thoughts, we chisel pictures.
A truth in fact, it’s rare a group will draw the same
conclusions. They will vary in texture & tone.
One must be patient with self—to center one’s mirror.
