Most Poetry

is a thought on
a train, that fleeting
glimpse and rain
hard on asphalt,
that covert moment
cut from a career book
on a bad day in
the cubicle.

Imagine then move on,
imagine then consider,
imagine then respond
to the next cubicle,
that song on the radio —
the one you can hum to,
the one to which you’ve
lost the words.

Most poetry is in
magician’s time, the kind
which vanishes, to be
replaced by a rabbit
who doesn’t know shit
about language and
meter and the rhythms
which the brain hears.

Most poetry is mist
hovering above the river,
song of foghorns like sirens
and Odysseus peering
until he hears.