WHERE DO POEMS GO?
It was one long poem unfurling
like a river in half-sleep, wrapping
the planet in a ribbon of voices –
old and new, foreign and domestic
accents, a rolling glint of silver
peaked upon each aquamarine
wave like the beat of a song
flowing above the clouds, sounding
the last groans of unknown soldiers
calling home, impatient lovers
and the outcasts cursed to howling
mixed in peace with the sublime.
When it rains, when windows streak
tears of grief and joy, we are relieved
to be human, to be vulnerable again.