Poem

Poem on the page –
where meanings dance or drink champagne
or brood or bellow on different floors
of a skyscraper…
Poem on the page
where vulnerability may be intertwined
with lust and rage,
where beauty still can be
while attended by the “me”.

Poem of the human body well made,
poem of the cheetah arun,
poem of the hawk’s eyes ablade
all witnessed by the poem of the sun –
yet none (except the few and sun),
because the “me” yet holds the heart,
is even close to the perfection of art.

Trees, hills, land, comet aslant, ablaze,
the spheres, star,
the human ablaze
with a wider body are not far.
But nothingness, emptiness – call it what you will –
unswayed, unobstructed by desire or will,
pure spontaneity, is the perfect poem, unbound,
because the “Poet” cannot be found.

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