I possess no desire to connect your dots
name a constellation for the space between your eyes and lips
measure it in 5-7-5
and find it six months down the road on a
denim backpack beside a pop song snippet
This is poetry,
this space

empty, yearning

this space between what you see (what I see)
and what you tell me we should be seeing (what I feel)
I do not need you to become a mystery
to see a lone candle flame reflected in a rainy window
in turn reflected in your far-off gaze
and compose a tragic metaphor on melting
This is poetry,
this flame

living, burning

this flame that illuminates what is familiar (what I see)
and, within, the spark from whence it came (what I feel)
I do not want to conform you to mold
collect your shattered pieces as so many wildflowers
press them between these broken lines
and pretend them put together again
This is poetry,
these shattered pieces

rent apart

these shattered pieces of a former whole (what I see)
and the moments that chipped each one away (what I feel)
I would not attempt to define you
to dip within the ink you’ve bled
bind your story to mine in gilded anthology
and pen your happily ever after
This is poetry,
this ink

infinite art

this ink that has spilled forth your history (what I see)
and the waiting pages it has not yet touched (what I feel)