This Is Not What It Is Like

I'm Speaking To Someone I'm Trying To Get To Fall In Love With Me. I'm Trying To Speak Intimately To One Person. That Should Be Clear. I'm Not Speaking To An Audience. I'm Not Writing For The Podium. I'm Just Writing, Trying To Write In A Fairly Quiet Tone To One Other Reader Who Is By Herself, Or Himself, And I'm Trying To Interrupt Some Silence In Their Life, Which Is Utterance.

I Love To Move Like A Mouse Inside This Puzzle For The Body, Balancing The Wish To Be Lost With The Need To Be Found.

This Is Not What It Is Like To Be You, I Realized As A Few Of Your Magnificent Clouds Flew Over The Rooftop. It Is Just Me Thinking About Being You. And Before I Headed Back Down The Hill, I Walked In A Circle Around Your House, Making An Invisible Line Which You Would Have To Cross Before Dark.

Humor, For Me, Is Really A Gate Of Departure. Its A Way Of Enticing A Reader Into A Poem So That Less Funny Things Can Take Place Later. It Really Is Not An End In Itself, But A Means To An End.

I Think My Work Has To Do With A Sense That We Are Attempting, All The Time, To Create A Logical, Rational Path Through The Day. To The Left And Right There Are An Amazing Set Of Distractions That We Usually Can't Afford To Follow. But The Poet Is Willing To Stop Anywhere.