Some people think of poetry
as a string of words that rhyme.
It must be, others opine,
musings ingeniously inspired
or stilted profundities, oddly arranged.
Some insist upon evocative phrasing
or words obscure and impenetrable
and yet poetry is not words at all
but a redolence that drifts
through the bars of our cages
or not even that but a dark,
nuanced display at a moment’s notice
on bright, open palms, stolen like a breath
from the reader’s chest,
a brief coupling alluding to, more or less,
the gasping, thunderous truth in us all;
a hint of the ultimate affinity
for which every heart pines.
O child of God, why ever would you endeavor
to put into words what poetry is?