Poems have to be short, simple.
You can't windbag the truth
or loudmouth the heart.
Their light and longings
have to be parceled easily,
taken in piecemeal,
mulled, ingested slowly.
Small things say a lot.
The wind picking up in the trees.
The leaves falling, crisp, vermillion.
The white hair at the edge of your brow.
The tremor in your hand.
The way you keep looking at me.
Morning dawns the edge of the sea
in bits and pieces.
Where's Jesus, Antonio,
Let couriers mount their steeds