I Cannot Find it

There is poetry in the fact that the divergence between Man and Mouse occurred only 90 million years ago; but I cannot tap the well to whisper its secrets to me.

There is poetry in the New England seasons; in train rides up to beach houses and making love with the Atlantic as witness; but I cannot find it in my pencil to tickle theses things on paper.

There is bitter poetry in returning home slowly; and I am its victim.

There is poetry in your face; it's weird, and I hope you recognize that.

There is poetry in childhood, obviously.

There is poetry in Bones, but aquariums and museums are only minor libraries.

There is poetry unresolved, in ruins, everywhere, thanks to you; and I am left to pick up the pieces.