A poem
is never just a poem.
This one's a sky
where the heart explodes.
It does not seek shelter
from a distance.
It's scarred all over
with the sweetest music.
It doesn't exist
without you,
from a read
to a key.
A heavy dawn,
a fall; it has no place to be,
no way to leave.
It's everything in transition,
nothing of permanence,
flicker and flame,
center of the circle.
It was then
but is still now.
When the writer's gone
it reconstructs itself
into a fable, a rhythm
and a hunger.
An expanding inside
as we tumble;
carries us further
and farther than
we've ever gone;
it's the breath of
what's already blowing.
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