Poetry is
what you do
instead of what you should be doing
or maybe because you
aren’t doing it.

Poetry is
you stop,
and everyone else is going on,
and still you stand. The gap grows greater.
You run ahead and fall into step
and then you stop
again.
Again, and again.
And meanwhile, the sky darkens.
It’s raining, or it’s not.
Rain and sun and winds that stir
The skin on boiled milk cools and curls
and you are off again
where you should not be.
A thousand tasks beckon,
and still you stand and dream,
counting your fingers,
holding your hands up against the sky