93. The Poem Reveal’d

 

 

the poem | is the shape | of

what the poem | meant to mean

the poem is | the slip of words

out of the mouth | onto

the page | into the ear

it does | not mean

instead it | is | it becomes

wholly and only | itself

because we have | broken

the poem | it sings to us

in a cracking voice | about

the life we cannot | live

how the world | surrounds us

with its | susurration

a small expulsion of | breath

just enough to allow | sounds

to escape | off the tongue

and into the | honeyed air

of this one summer | night

we might | even live through

 

the poem | is the sound

of the voice | in the air

in the ear | in here

(points to | head)

where nothing | makes a

sound | but the sound still

resonates | as if the creaking

of a voice | communicates

a thought | touches our

sick and turgid | hearts

tells us what | it is ever

we need to | understand

to hold on to | to cherish

as if the | sad and broken

words of a | poem could

tell us anything | we might

have to know | because we

need to believe | we are

alive and able to | flourish at

least for | a moment of word

 

the poem is | the taste

of a word | caught

on the tongue | trapped

while in flight | in the air

of the wind | of the sound

of the voice | that emits

not words | but the outlines

of sense | the idea we

had | that we could not say

but is still felt | in the unsaying

of it | it is something we can

catch in our teeth | and hold

in place | just | long enough

for enough perception | to

grab it | and hold it | still

until it is so | quiet and

breathless | that it no longer

hums | yet it | in its death

we can feel | its blood dry-

ing in our mouths into words