I’ve got a one-way ticket to Paradox
touring Abstract along the way.
Nothing resembles fact
so much as a large panther
close at hand.
Concrete can be easily understood —
sand and gravel mixed together
with water and powdered Portland cement.
But here there is no hard and fast
that I can touch or be touched by.
There may not be true north.
I’m surrounded by intrinsic
form that represents whatever
it chooses in the moment —
Perhaps a soupçon of love or hate?
Even gravity is less grave
than it should be, leaving out
all the rotational force required.
When I arrive, at last, I find
that poetry does not exist
without the poem
and no poem can be written