Poem

The poem arranges itself

It is in first person

It is entitled poem
It has a color
It is from a book of poems
It slips outside when you are not looking
and lives another life
It is in time
It does not mock words
it is limited and repetitive
but unravels in front of a theater
and throws on a scarf
lives on an island
at the end of a century
the word noodle makes it sound silly
in a rather other worldly
series of ideas
it is your responsibility
it is skittish
it lacks what stars lack
and what planets lack
and looks in both directions
it thinks of itself as a country
or a fire started by apples
it sits beside a river
it lives alone
it has always wanted to live alone
it listens for insects
it knows its own secret
it sleeps in the doorway
and in woodpiles
it hates people
it loves your eyes and smile
it is neatly wedged in-between two pages
it is a promise that listened
it is memorized
and blistered
turns its face away
turns a cheek
it is not a structure
or a wire or milk
or entirely monogamous
it is the intermission
that awaits a good mind
it is placid like a bead
in a world of ever
expanding beads
a constant rehearsal
for oblivion
a bar full of hostages
it doesn't matter
a bait trap, fresh grapes
might be it
it is none of thee above
It is thinking of itself as a poem.