morning poem, march 22, 2016

What Poetry Does

Poetry makes the unimagined seem inevitable.

It takes you deeper in

Deeper than sight, sound or smell ever could.


You remember the smell of burning cigarettes

In the lobby of the café

In those days people still smoked inside

And how the tobacco smoke blended

With the musty scent of the snow-wet wool coats

Hanging in the closets there


You were young then

Or were you not yet born

Is this a memory

Or some imagining of one other

Thing that never happened.


But there in some crevice of the verse

There in how those words go together

Is some magic key that opens the gate

And lets you know, once again

That there is more to this life.


And so memory

Or was it not a memory

Is covered with a blanket of desire

And all aches and glows.


Copyright 2016

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