The Poem

The poem decides

not to be 

dead in other words

the poem falls into life 

relaxes into a ham-

mock without mocking

bird or mocking 

The poem lands 

on a handsome hand

retrieves its echo 

not far from 

the slowly running

river vine sung unseen

The poem entices

cloud or sun or

spiked heels of 

hail steel rain 

denting cars and bikes

the hands the face

The poem weaves 

yarn and yarns

twist into selves

unknown the tone

of the rests

unfilled still sings 

like steel guitar 

equally rinsed 

whole tones of 

the sine wave choir