Maybe the hours of waiting for the poem
are the poem itself.
Watching light increase
while the mind takes flight
to past and future, rarely
fastens on the now.
Maybe the poem waits
in the mind's loose moorings,
in the pull and push of currents
testing frayed rope.
Morning warmth makes steam ripple
from bare boards soaked with rain,
delicate overhead ocean 
dispersing in an hour
under efficient sun.
Maybe the act of writing down the poem 
destroys it, like Audubon with his rifle 
bagging birds to draw.
Maybe if forewarned
the poem would flee.
Maybe it always does,
changing form rather than dying,
forever one mutating heartbeat further on.

It isn’t that they mean to kill you.
They just want honey from your veins.
A light kiss on the lips, the face, the neck
while you lie sleeping, a long drink
and they’re off, leaving only
flecks of shit
that could cause 
swelling, fever, death.
 
Sometimes they ride inside
on your best friend, sometimes
they find you in the desert
where you go 
to quiet down.
They’ll help. 
Then fly away like dreams 
on silent wings.