I read some beautiful poetry,
and I thought that I would write a poem

as if I was making an axe handle
I could use to free the feelings stirred

like termites in the roots of my chest,
which is to say my ribs —

even though that’s not quite
exactly what I meant to say.

What I really wanted to say
was something more elaborate

like, “all the birds sing
spring, they don’t sing for the spring —

they make it suddenly spring
by singing.” But then I got selfish.

And I decided not to write
a poem. You don’t get to know

what I felt, and what a joy it is
to keep these feelings to myself.