Are you after what the poet cannot find,
the significance you have a sense for
like cloud formations and dirt clods
and warm currents deep enough to know
he may not have a clue, not as you do,
yet you’ll go around his feet
walk a path that’s incomplete
from childhood to chances of evening
out of days into delirium
across the dark pond and puzzled moon
scaling images you’ve not seen
riding metaphors in between
where you marvel for a moment
and give him all your change
since he sings like no one’s listening
(it’s your rooting that’s so interesting)
close to making the meaning
you meant for him to make
out of life, such grace, that dream
until you run out of steam
and let your eyes skip to the last stanza?
All this for that you’ll go through?
Hallelujah. I’ll come too.