there’s a poem in the attic
in the yard
through the blinds

there’s a poem in the rain
around the corner
no one minds

you may find one in your sleep
on your pillow
in a drawer

even when you’ve seen them all
you’ll still run
into more

they bloom full into morning
until dusk
into the night

making pictures cinematique
they play it out
just right

while making whispery rattlings

poets choose words carefully, then
measure, stir
with care

because more poems are waiting
down the hall
on the stairs

poets ready with their tackle, mind
and roomy

not just ghostly still in silence
aloof with
gentle heart

but see them now a wild bunch
radical art