Saturday, October 2, 2021

surface tension

It’s poetry to pay attention.

It’s poetry to dig a hole—

don’t take it from me—

ask any poet you know.

For me it’s crows in the morning,

motorcycles passing with dreams

blowing smoke in my eyes,

so says the day, so goes

the dreaming spilling over—

a cigarette, a cup of coffee,

a face you’ve never seen.

Of course you follow premonitions.

Of course you practice some

small auguries, tea leaves and 

glistening guts, feathers plucked 

from some station of the sky.

It’s poetry to stay off topic

while belaboring the point,

sticking to the skins of things

when gravity runs aground.

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