writing a poem about falafels wouldn’t
be like writing a poem about love,
or death,
or even ideas.

writing a poem about a seamless dress wouldn’t
be like writing a poem about marriage,
or faith,
or even divorce.

actually-
it’d be like writing a poem
about a poem,
but not.

it’d be like listening to music for
sound,
sound like a screen door slapping
shut,
kicking up years of dust in a room,
a room with a floor that held feet
from nothing it could know,
but nothing the floor didn’t know,
dust the door thought it knew,
a facade of spew the not knowing
found important enough
to write a poem about.