a poet will sail the line of a poem
like a Titanic figurehead
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
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 the barest need to be said
ends its longing for what the heart
always knew

Jim Culleny; May 2009


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