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READER

Some poems read like a bookshelf.
The poets carefully putting each word in its place, snug and sure and right.

And other poems feel like Polaroids,
poets waving them about in the air to make the scene come into focus.

Still others feel like a come on,
something you can't believe still works,
and yet here you are, in bed with it.

My poems are like the hot panic you feel when you are sure you've lost something and dump your bag on the table.

My poems are the things which tumble out of the bag: the menus,
the post-its, the articles your mother

cuts out and gives you at Christmas,
the books, the receipts, the leaky pens,
the old gum, the unflattering photo,

the lint, the dust, the dirt, until ...
there it is. You find it: the shiny key needed to open that stubborn door.