Sometimes a poet will sail
the line of a poem
like a figurehead on
arms spread in a twenty-knot breeze
embracing the wind,
the air, the fabulous future,
poised before the next word,
only to find it isn’t there:
the right word,
the one that says it all,
the one that pulls the rabbit out of the hat of the poem,
that drops scales from blind eyes,
that gives ears their plum and brain its due
and (with just the barest need to be said)
ends its longing for what the heart
already knew

Jim Culleny; May 2009

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s