It's hard to read
even a simple poem.
It waits
like a net--
full of wide gaps,
dangling strands.
It's meant
to be spare
but it's so
easy to sail
through the holes
and miss it completely;
only to have
some vague memory of words.

Sometimes you turn and think
I should have paid closer attention
but the moment won't come back
and the holes remain
even from behind
just so wide
as in all consciousness.