I’ve never read a piece that beats frosty grass on a morning crisp and bright
I’ve never heard a talk that equals the terrific and terrifying truth of the sea
I’ve never heard an argument as convincing as the snow drop
Or read a novel as gripping as the sky
So when I write, it’s a car crash
I’m trying to remove the words even as I’m putting them down
Deconstructing even as I construct
Hoping for miracle, like the flower appearing through brick and cement
Knowing only the space between these words has any life
And that nothing in the dictionary compares to the possibility of you
