more than can be held in my mouth at once
perhaps an outreaching finger
from an outstretched arm.
perhaps, more cordial, both arms
waving into the sky.
sky moves too. like kin.
maybe poem takes a first breath,
chest taking wind like a sail, then
breathing out, mixing its taste into
where we breathe ourselves.
how does a poem arrive? notice how
it walks into the room. does it stride
right up to, or sit quietly waiting you
to notice the space it occupies?
does it drop stones or pebbles at your feet?
does it swerve around obstacles or sit right on top?
do they bite? or patiently nibble toes?
does it scratch its head wondering, or wait you
to catch your stride?
does it crawl on all fours, gauging your willingness
to look down? look down into its face.
do wings sprout or does it stride on four feet?
see the rocks pile into ocean waves.
see legs dance between stances too
fragile to keep. they arch like
I think I’m calling this done. It’s bigger than I can hold in my mouth all at once. Poem looks at one of my obsessions, how close to real can a poem be and how would it appear? How would you know? Far more question than rigid answer here. But ask often enough and some fog might go to ground. As it is, so be it. And maybe blatantly anthropomorphic, but then what isn’t if you just shift the center right some measure or so.