This is the sound a poem makes:
Flapping wings pushing air;
But the air, too:
Fleeing for new space.
A poem aches
With the kind of grace
That arrives only from
Suffering we can taste.
Because our hunger is so acute.
So finite.
In one number,
A poem moves a thousand ways--
Dancing not just for me or you.
It has to: unanalyzed.
We know when we meet it
Because its stubborness
Is quiet, unrelenting--
As our stomachs, hearts.
