all i can think of is
flowers.
she reads like she is
singing –
her voice drops and then
lifts,
she gestures wide with her
arms,
hands aflutter.
she obviously loves words.
she must enjoy rolling them
around in her mouth,
trying them on for size,
utility, impact.
allusiveness.
i once dated a poet…
it did not go well.
i fell in love with how she
put words together,
and misread their sharpness
(recognized myself in her
poetry twenty years later).
that’s why i do not trust
poets.
they always expect words to
do more than their fair share,
they use them to wear down
your will,
to encircle you and
mount your defenses.
they are sorcerers
conjuring fantasies and
promises,
cajoling us to see more than
the words
and yet the words elusive;
they place us in chains
and chained to possible
meanings,
all our hopes and dreams
held in their busy little
hands,
offering
us these bouquets.
