A poem is the rotten branch or fallen stick
That, whether real or just an optical trick,
Catches the corner of your eye without fail
While scranching along an overgrown trail.
The way it was bent or broken
How its shape conjured, like a cloud or ink blot
Something unsettled, unspoken
You absently pick it up; you’re non-committal.
Take it home and try to whittle
The wood into the thing you thought
But the vision is ephemeral
Your honed words, cleaved from their moment of conception,
Left alone are just a projection.
All that’s left of the flash of the seminal
Is just what you hold in your hand
With shavings of wood on the floor where you stand
At some point you have to put it down
It’s finished, you’ve moved on to the next thing found.
Verses are crude ventures to create a lifeline
From a lifetime of millions of half-glimpses of the sublime.
A dour collection of nouns, adjectives and verbs
Piles of sticks bundled on curbs
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