Whoever’s good for more than seven words

shouldn’t wholly trust my compliments.


A sniper’s bullet outruns its sound,

word of it arrives too late.


My words outrun intent, I turn

my back on them and walk away.


I sleep among their fallen leaves,

I don’t dream of spring, I dream


of lightning bolts and floods

that loosen my grip on earth.


I dream of making a poem

of something better than words,


something like the betrayal in a tic,

a longing inviolable as an orbit.