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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