How A Poem Goes

we'll just rest awhile, create a delicacy. there
is time, a portion of which we invented. this is a
love poem.

a poem is a place and people place. this seems too
richly formed to free us, but one shouldnąt jump.
the incline is part of the kiss. every rational
path becomes a map, larking for money. money has
its place, defining people as possible presences,
not endless numbers. we make a home.

we depend on our energy, the caress or speaking
low at a sunset, retooling the path with our
thoughts. there could be a garden, nice as edges
rendering geometric genius into harmonious
worldview. the sun is nearly set, so evening has
our plan.

a poem only resounds as love, practical essence of
just a time in which, when we were young, but also
as we loped into the room, and alter still, a
quiet garden walk. this adds up as graceful as the
many numbers that seem so moneyed for our relief.
a poem can only try its place, however we may work
it.

since I am a name then this is a poem to hand
over. you have my plot line and the edging of the
garden path. you will read this, and think on
about place and placement. the happening of this
is wind from the dark part of your scanned
horizon. take this, then, just take this.