When one can write a poem
As fast as it can be thought and
Even faster than it can be spoken,
Is there even time to think about what
Every line means? Is there even time
To consider how and why the scrutiny
Will reign and, should I act more like a
Person and less like a poet, or
Should I keep trying to catch the
Water in a rushing river that
Will literally only stop when the world stops,
Or when the trees fall down to block it,
Or when a human dam is made to
Cultivate its power.
Is this poem my dam? Stilling the infinite waters of
Human thought about the inevitable ending
Of life. Or will the water still keep running
After I am no longer making it? Will someone
Else open the dam and let the captured fresh
Water of these words run free again?
Can we
All agree that there is nothing finer than
A little cold water on a hot day with hot rocks
And cold river grass between our toes?
The
Break in these lines is my river grass and
The water is pumping into your mouth
Finally, finally, you are no longer thirsty
For answers. You are finally full of river water
And it is finally time for the dam to let you
Evacuate the contents of your stomach back
Into the river flow for it to take a piece of
Your insides and put it into a reservoir for
Those who come looking. For those who want
To swim and take a drink of me. A drink of me
Here. Served.
Get out your metal
Cups and close your eyes. Let it
touch your tongue and
Swallow.
