Good Poetry

When I read good poetry
Which I have not written,
My unwritten poems come out and goad me
Eroding the line between written and read
Down to bedrock caves
Where ochre hands hold up a limestone sky,
A sanctuary of circles scorched by stories
Which never more are heard nor told.
It hurts my head
To think I did not write them down.
Thus they ain’t my verses, I know it.
I am the worst kind of poet:
Not writing, but reverberating,
Sighing, raking glowing rhyme
Across a grate of parchment,
Leaving it empty.
I'll read it once again!
Something here belongs to me!
Or perhaps I am myself good poetry.

March 16, 2026