I Knew That Poets Seemed To Be

A Sentence Starts Out Like A Lone Traveler Heading Into A Blizzard At Midnight, Tilting Into The Wind, One Arm Shielding His Face, The Tails Of His Thin Coat Flapping Behind Him.

I'm Speaking To Someone I'm Trying To Get To Fall In Love With Me. I'm Trying To Speak Intimately To One Person. That Should Be Clear. I'm Not Speaking To An Audience. I'm Not Writing For The Podium. I'm Just Writing, Trying To Write In A Fairly Quiet Tone To One Other Reader Who Is By Herself, Or Himself, And I'm Trying To Interrupt Some Silence In Their Life, Which Is Utterance.

Until Recently, I Thought 'occasional Poetry' Meant That You Wrote Only Occasionally.

But Tomorrow, Dawn Will Come The Way I Picture Her, Barefoot And Disheveled, Standing Outside My Window In One Of The Fragile Cotton Dresses Of The Poor. She Will Look In At Me With Her Thin Arms Extended, Offering A Handful Of Birdsong And A Small Cup Of Light.

But Some Nights, I Must Tell You, I Go Down There After Everyone Has Fallen Asleep. I Swim Back And Forth In The Echoing Blackness. I Sing A Love Song As Well As I Can, Lost For A While In The Home Of The Rain.