I’ll tell you what poetry is:
your fingers gently holding your sleeves
as you raise your left hand
(and sometimes both of your hands)
up to your mouth,
afraid that the words you never meant to say
might accidentally spill out.
having you in front of me
on a frosty day in spring
(that is poetry!),
as the chill wind blows in my face
and through my eyelids
into my eyes, into my brain,
it burns your image;
it immortalizes your being;
it glorifies the birth- the projection
of your being into my area of existence,
into my area of being.
un-interested and un-entertained
of these worldly things,
just wanting to sit somewhere-
anywhere! – Just wanting to talk,
listen, just wanting to breathe.
I would like to better explain to you
what poetry is,
but I know nothing more than this–
I, writing of you and about you
thinking that this is just a poem,
thinking that this is just poetry.