Page 18 - flying stones

some people won’t read

some people won’t read a poem unless it rhymes,

so poets take more time than they care to admit
to make the endings of their ideas fit one sound

quickening with another, like young lovers

in the back seat of a car, testing just how far
they can commit without letting things slip into

one fatal shooting star, ablaze:

a gift of shouting senses

and passionate lights

and other glowing superlatives
the night confounds the poet with.