This Real: An Obligatory Poem

There is a certain logic to a poem,
different from the logic of cities
or the reason why you hold someone you love.
A poem is not a crowded station at rush hour.
It is closer to the last man
walking home at 4 in the morning,
singing the only tune he knows.

The poet is a mapmaker tired of maps;
someone who builds a house of rain
and hopes the roof won’t collapse.

When you are willing to forget
everything you know,
the poem is as real as your face in the morning;
easier to follow than the flight of birds at night.
A whisper that can terrify
or give you comfort in the dark.
A poem is the only chance
for fleshing out the shadows beyond
the corner of your eye.

There is a certain logic to a poem,
impossible to predict
until you have swallowed it whole
and can feel what might be
nothing at all
breathing slowly inside you
somewhere beneath the sound of your own breath.


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