Focus

 

One problem with my poetry

(among the many others)

is that I'm in love 

with the prosaic. 

The literal, the accurate,

the factually correct. 

Causation and correlation. 

It just doesn't work like that.

The real poet makes room

for all kinds of images:

the molten lead of raindrops 

dripping off of streetlights,

clouds like commas 

enumerating the skyline,

tree trunks encrusted

with little fungal barnacles,

broken-handled shovels

half-buried in the snow, 

the keyhole tattoo

on the back of her neck,

the pound cake scent 

of pear blossoms about to open,

a silent film slowed down

and playing out of focus.