Le Mot Vivre
I have found
that I cannot
sneak up on words—
they sense my presence,
my hovering, my breath.
The words I choose fashion
themselves into a parade
a parade that,
slowly like a Noh play,
approach and stop
in front of me. All the women
and men in uniform with their
bright instruments. Silent,
all turning to point at me.
*
One of my "poetic strains" is the poem talking about itself. The possibilities seem endless in what it could say. It feels like a metaphor, but for what? The poem is once-removed from me.
