12:30 am

I like poetry
I like the tenderness of it
and how it is like a leaf
I may slip into my pocket
and carry along
into stifling examination halls

I like its thoughts
the gaps and turns
it does not ask for cleverness
from me
as I do
it is not a mother
and not a child

a poem, a poem only
silly and free
like a fly
that does not care for freedom
or like a little gust
in a thousand crowd:

the hair furls
I turn to watch it go
but it is gone
before i do