Poets share
names and words
until meanings of oceans and skies
and whatever else composes Us
shakes the balance of
Love’s instant
and delayed
Gratification.
When I can’t…
find the right word –
resounds between the walls
of each brain hallway –
a maze where all words
all thoughts
all strained existences
are lost
but not worried
not frightened
for they found god
or a swimming pool
or whatever they drown in
or fly in –
I. Do. Not. Know.
I cannot Be
receptive on a day
when meat skins slither by
and suck a little more sol.
