This poem is a soft-shelled crab, the
drab and unadorned way the world sighs
just before a storm. It can’t be dry
-cleaned, or steamed or hung
on a line. It won’t be patient with
your heart, or your itchy fingers or
the humdrum of your aching un
-metered feet. It’s incomplete, and
stained at center. It can’t be good,
or fooled, or cajoled into something
it’s not. It can’t be caught by trap
or butterfly net or long lost wishing
star. Or mason jar. Or cage. Or rage.
Has it lost its wonder? Perhaps. Let
it wander free. Be. Let it flee these
unlined pages and scribble-scruff
the sky. Let it fall, or fight and find
itself a home. It can’t be too late, right?
Prompted by Poetic Asides.