a poem is a still-budding string of words that you feel drawn to
because they each have a pulse – a pulse that is both a heartbeat
and a little light you see coming towards you like you would high beams
on a street that is swamped by dark. you start with the pulse and grasp
at the halo of light around it (which you can see better when you squint
your eyes), and from there it follows easily. it reminds you of your hands
working nimbly to let your hair fall down over bare shoulders after the door
is closed and the lights to your apartment have been switched on.
a poem is
