One in the Morning

I read one poet, then think of another,
And then from her, another.
You say you dislike poems
about poetry. I do, as well, but tell me,
how many poems about poetry
can you show me are about poetry?
Think about every author of the Old Testament,
stone mazes of words, their numinous millennias,
yet forbidden to annunciate or to spell out,
for the faithless eyes,
the full name of their beloved.
Now, think about the plague of crickets
outside the window, and I, turning from
the moth-glow of the computer on the table,
enter the unlit yard to listen as they
line up their utterances on the strands of reeds,
fanned out along the creases of the river,
so that I may hear your name mentioned
by darkness.

– 18/5/17 Ancaster, ON, Canada

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