Poem #48
I want to write a poem
As simple as a series of instructions
When you get to the end, presto—
A stylish new bookcase
That never wobbles
Or a complicated electric toy
That actually whirrs to life
But there're no books for the empty shelves
And no kids are interested in your cheap plastic gift
Well then, a poem at least ought to be instructive
A series of steps taking you
From point A to point B
Get to the last stanza
And you’re nearly in Paris.
Halfway to self-immolation
For this to be true you have to know
Where you’re starting from
And point A often remains elusive
Which is the crux of the problem
For beginners like me.
Like, where am I right now?
Point B never bothered me as much.
Once you’ve got A, the good poem
Can take it from there
Another way of thinking about it
Is that there is no Point A or Point B
The poem is the between that remains:
Solitary flickering spark
Hovering in the space
That follows yawning original silence,
Serving as prologue to all the unasked questions
It will never get a chance to answer
The winter exhalations
Of someone you love standing
Too far away to tell if she’s
Speaking or just breathing
The faceless watch that only ticks
Leaving the mystery of the time solely in your hands
So it’s up to you not to be late
A house that’s nothing but hallways
That never spill into any rooms
The love that lingers
When the room is empty
The room you retreat to
When all the other rooms are full
The notes of a song
That isn’t meant to be sung
An accurate map of the realm
Of a Fisher King who will never heal
Mystical incantations
Whispered into the mist
That take you from wherever you are
To the place you were meant to go
From whatever this is now
To however it’s supposed to feel
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