Sometimes I stop and ask myself,
was the poetry worth
the pain
in the end?

is not supposed to mean anything

it floats like a bubble

and then it pops

and there is

wonder

and then its

over

little bird up on high
out of me tease a sigh
and thrill me till i'm prone
flap your graceful wings
and rise into the blue
little bird heaven-bound
sing your catchy song
but dear please I pray
don't make it too sad
lest the sky weeps
in deep melancholy
and my eyes in reverie
sympathetic, soak the world
with a flood of sad tears

eyes like the forest
mysterious and inviting
draw me close
until i am lost.

Busy, with an idea for a code, I write
signals hurrying from left to right,
or right to left, by obscure routes,
for my own reasons; taking a word like writes
down tiers of tries until its secret rites
make sense; or until, suddenly, RATS
can amazingly and funnily become STAR
and right to left that small star
is mine, for my own liking, to stare
its five lucky pins inside out, to store
forever kindly, as if it were a star
I touched and a miracle I really wrote.