on poets II

every true poet
has felt it;
when nothings are palpable and words don’t suffice
for there is beauty
beyond dreaming
in a pin prick. in a whitewashwall.
the sensory world is such that
we cannot, we shall not
we will not no ever never
feel all that we might;
but oh, God, could we?
I am drowned by the cool milkiness of thoughts that can’t be put on paper. And what, really,
is paper
but another of our own fading constructs in the dark brocade of our own blindness?
there’ssomuchhere!there’s too much here
to write or wilt or whim or wither
whether
or not we choose to see the sheer pure loveliness of our air.
With so much to be, so very much more to seek,
it’s a true right fresh young wonder that we still remember anything.

I like to
collapse into the stories.
an envelope of neatly tied hand written melodies
a crucible cup full of all the love that hasn’t been loved just yet.
It’s warm, it is tentative and perfect. Quilted hands reach
no *stop,* slow it *down;*
there will be time,
there will be *begonias to spare here and there and everywhere you go I am here, my darling.*
{I am here, my love. I am
here.}

what would it mean
if the watchers and the winners
—and the killers and the sinners—
could share a sunshine
{oh but, here have this I’ve been saving it,
this dandelion of a secret for you:
they do}

P. S. There’s such glory in here
and I’ve never known why anyone decides to leave

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