What is human existence?
It turns out it’s pretty simple:
We are dead stars, looking back
up at the sky.
~Dr. Michelle Thaller
is a poem real? take it off your leash,
discover how it wants to play in your
define real. is it how we occupy space?
do we know by touching boundary lines?
how does it share the space with us?
how do we integrate a poem into our life?
pardon me, can you make room for me on the bench?
is there body heat being this poem-close with you?
poems begin far before their voices announce.
they arrive an unraveling thread. your hand
will make it right.
and making the destination uniquely your own.
no poem stands alone. it’s a matter of choice.
even quiet poems await becoming your skin.
who you are, how you hold my hand, all these
matters matter here.
what makes a poem real?
your willingness, allowing heart room to change.
here’s the part of the poem that’s invisible.
it’s each and every different you.
is this poem real? are we?
Here is cousin to how poems move. Addressing my fascination again, do poems matter, and how.
Although they do not literally breathe, what sort of existence might they express. Being may be elemental, as the quote details, yet what of the parent does intent impart that now is, of itself? Is that a home? What do you tell yourself before falling into sleep?