Like the world that came to us,
claimed itself a sphere,
despite the sun, a spirit level,
nights laid between you and me.

Like the poem you love;
on the tip of your tongue,
its truth,
its desert flood,
no mouth to say,
its taste swallows you.
No synonyms for why,
but word by word,
the course it sets from you.

But you are not a poem,
of course.
You are stuck in traffic,
frequently.
Like trees, you pretend
not to unlonely,
not restless. 
You wait for things to happen,
for your life to mean something
besides the earth that shines and rains
and circles in your arms.

So, let us pretend this, instead:
you are from some other place
where beauty comes from.
For now, let us say poems are 
how to breathe there.