I've never thought to write

a poem

Supine on a porch some-

thing sublime

It cuts as a jet through

fall, skyhigh

And the touching of chains

attached cry

Is a signal to all eve-

ning is mine

The absence of sound; cou-

pled with light

Is more than perceived; a

hot mean night

I've never thought to write

a poem

A deathly stick of white

unlike night

Black buning powder on 

the front porch

 

To many, poetry

is something

that circles a subject,

Something deep

that masks aphorism

and completes

But to me, poetry 

Is just words

Like a cigarette burn-

ing a porch

Or a boy on a chair-

swing in heat

Or the hum of a jet

in the sky

I've never thought to write a poem

There is just something a-

bout those words.