I love it, the magic.
How the words, the ******* words --
have a rhythm of their own.
It's like the syllables, have dots and stems;
the punctuation, a rest marker. Beats
and sounds and music but not
quite music. 'Cause if it was music
it wouldn't be called a poem.
It's why I write. Her, yes. But the Words?
Oh the words. Just pause, for every comma.
Stop, for every period. Read it. Hear it
and let it breathe in your ear like
I let Her do. It doesn't always have to
be raw emotion.
Sometimes. Just -- sometimes.
It's enough to let the words,
be all the subject,
we ever need.