A poem is only truly itself
The moment you write it
Or the first time you read it
And then it’s gone.
It’s just what you needed
But only for that one time.
Like the gasping breath that fills your lungs
The second you crest the surface
After being submerged too long.
But it’s also the one after that
And then the ones that follow
In sequentially declining amplitudes.
No one expects you to catch them all.
But the poems are always there,
Hiding nondescriptly in each moment,
Doggedly keeping you alive
Whether you notice them or not.