A Specific Tempo
Written: July 10, 2026, for a contest sponsored by Brian Strand
******************
To read a poem
is not to hear one
it is to enter
through the quieter door
the voice arrives later.
First—
the white between words,
the hush that carries them,
the margin where pen pauses,
leaving ink to dry
the breath
the reader...
does your pulse
alter, too,
when language
refuses haste?
like dust motes
floating in the air.
A poem
asks almost nothing—
only
your eyes,
your unborrowed attention
the age-old act of awareness
of remaining
stay on board
let the line
find its own weather
seek its own skies.
Do not rush
the syllable
still gathering rain
turn
the page
as though
a raw light enters the room
opening a window
not a feed
the world need not refresh
to become unworn.
Reading a poem
is the opposite
of swallowing
while elsewhere
it is the slow intelligence
*of tea
cooling against the lip
*of bread
remembering grain
*of light
crossing a wooden floor
one patient inch
at a time.
Your breath
learns
the measure
it misplaced
even silence
develops texture—
velvet,
salt,
the gentle spirit—
of introspection
the soft mineral
of whimsy.
The Scroll
counts
motion
the poem
counts
returns
one consumes
your noticing.
The other
returns it,
leaf by leaf,
until language
is no longer
something you read
but something
that reads. . . . . .you.
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