i don’t know what to tell
you
there are secret poems
i would be a fool
to speak them to you
i’m not sure what a poem is
what it’s supposed to hide
how much weight a word may
bear
how much do i give away
how do you choose what to
hold –
do you use the right hand or
the left?
what is the gift being
offered
or is there even a gift?
we speak the words into
being
give the stories skin and
bones
an architecture of hope
that there is someone
listening
that even a soft still voice
still
makes an imprint on the
world
now i speak through a cloud
darkly
(no. that’s not it)
now i see through a glass
darkly
each phrase a broken mirror
perhaps it isn’t that big a
mystery after all
perhaps it was never meant
to be one
sometimes poetry plays games
with you
sometimes
you even win
