The Poet
Her mind accumulates oddments and curios,
contrivances with strange linkages,
attachments that bolt unlikely parts together;
the mechanics of metaphysics.
Pieces of something she is sculpting or
assembling, or just waiting for,
a glimpse of a word-picture
too intricate to be entirely recalled
as a whole canvas.
She discovers these odd figments
on the leeched rim of vision,
where shapes are nameless.
Part of her mind
burns with the light of a kerosene lamp,
the other blazes too brightly.
Slowly she feels the inconceivable
creep upon her, imagines discovering
the last transcendental piece
of a scattered poem, the keystone.
Senses reach for a nexus
there are endless connections,
too many to grasp.
She realizes that her whole life
she has been building images
that can only be seen once,
once before their time, after that
they are just
writing.
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