The poem is always aching to begin.
Like a red-lacquered bridge
it ferries image & idea,
moving sideways to the rhythm
of newfound thought.
The poem becomes the sweetest concept,
of cloud-stuff lit by chalcopyrite,
melting towards absurdity-laced beauty.
The pain at the center,
the veritable something
out of nothing.
The poem is a ghost of flame,
a kiss, a shipwreck,
an unexpected win.
she comes running with both feet,
Zen-spaced the poem
must dance across the sky,
uttering unarticulated feeling,
for cadence’s final thrill—
a splatter of blue
at the pivotal moment of birth.