The poem

What are you looking at?
The poet writes in puzzles
The poet writes consciously and
The poet writes what he might
Not know
Though he tries

Is it the dark branches
Posed in front of purple fading skies
A lattice of words binding like twine
Spreading out and in and tapping the top of a house
Or is it one pearl on a whole goblet?

Is it a reflection or a window
or a reflection on a window or
what’s behind?
Layers of pasts
Lighting and pitch, time or
instruments with moving arms

Does a poets’ memory lie?
Or are words stiff picket fences?
Numbers worth looking into?
Is it a brush or a canvas or a model?
The beauty is that
It is all of these
And none of
them
Completely

4 thoughts on “The poem

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