When she knows I am watching,
she is not the type to twirl
long dresses or let her hair
fall in an upward stream of air.
Neither will she show herself
to be floatingly lost, ghostlike
in images and rhythms.
She is not the poet, she is poetry.
Secretly, I attend her ambling
through grasses as she skims
past cattails and beach roses
to ruddy mangroves; she, embedded
in saline mire stilted among tidal
thickets; there she tarries, bewitched
by alabaster pulp and uncommon joy.
She is not the poet, she is my poem.
I have resigned to stay away,
to record what I’ve witnessed,
then later, once we’ve been rejoined,
to guide my coagulated nib to spill
and form what I’d seen and hope it thins,
to meld my thoughts into more,
to muddy the virgin white page
and to pray for uncommon words.
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