Some poets move too quickly to capture.

Ephemeral creatures, movements traced

in paint-stroke blurs.

 

I am conscious not to puncture the poem

with the shutter click. Wait for the poet’s voice

to cloak me.

 

And my language is no longer words,

but expressions and gestures and glances-

my hands filling with the possibilities of light.

 

 

First published in Small Packages Issue 12