poetry poem

why do i pretend
i want anything other than
poetry?

i have always wanted poetry
more than anything else

have always sought
sustenance from stanzas

have always found nourishment
in the particular cadences
of particular poets

have always loved the process
of finding my way from one verse
to the next, whether they are mine
or others’

the warmth of waking into
poetry in the morning

the softness of drifting into
dreams with poetry at night

the way some words wrap
tendrils around reality
and twist my vision slightly
just enough to make me see
everything different,
brighter

poetry does this

so why do i ever
pretend that i
want anything
other than to be
near poetry
all the time

i should admit
that i want to
drink in poetry
in deep gulps
that i want to
take poetry to
bed with me at
night
that it is poetry
i dream about
in those moments
before full consciousness
under the covers on
cold mornings,
wishing poetry
were there with me
that it is poetry
which has taken me
to every where i have
ever been and poetry
which brings me back

(and poetry
frightens me for
all of these reasons

i have never been
very good at learning
how to hold
what loves
and is loved so well

my hands open
and i allow poetry
to slip through
my fingers
swim wildly
after poetry
but am relieved
when i never quite
catch her)