This is going to be one of those
and here I am
right inside;

feel me.

Look. So, seeing too,
and I will point like something –

the tip of that skein insinuating its destination;
as if a beacon of light has shot out in the direct trajectory of love –

and you will say/feel

aahhh:

I think that is the emotive approximation.

I always used to be inside,
undertaking chores [for a less domesticated way of perceiving],
and being wry.

You see?

Here I am
and this is transmission and conveying and picturing
for me / for you

for you / for me:

I think that is the symmetry.

I will soon recall a word that suspires
softly

though I may have already achieved.

And now is time for the internal [but externalised] dialogue

You think?

which written colloquially takes on an essence of authenticity

This is not deceit but is certainly a conceit.

However, that isn’t always the case.

Having chosen free verse over, for example, the sonnet,
it is of interest how form is more fashion, like an epaulet
as the writer marches and parades ever forward,
always aware of other effects, so nearing toward
this. But somewhere in that stride I lost sight of the shoulder
upon which the metaphor rests, and meaning is a colder
feast to displace the warm-up of this exemplar banquet.

And here is what will be seen as form’s perseverance,
how having begun there is little will for the severance
of mirroring and cleverness of more replication –
though it should be called out for what it is: application
from the rule-book – and in the endeavour again of other
this is one of those lines not to smother
breaking rules, but break all the same from reverence.

Having been on a roll, so to speak,
a break in time and consciousness
has occurred

yet there is still this personal intention.

There
should
be one of
these
when the
thought
digs deep
and down
into its
roots; we
rise from
our depths
through
poetry.

And before I do,
I wonder at forget-me-nots,
their baby blue and
yellow eyes;
how they arrive as
a surprise,
usurp and arise;
Scorpion grass snaked into the garden
like the subterfuge of
beauty.

I think of the Romantics too
in all of it.

This is one of those
and I have been here
all the time.
What I know is here
all the time.
What I tell you is here
all the time.