You can see it in a drowned man’s eyes

In the pawn shop window I just passed

Frosty truths that come to the table uninvited

The poet and the truth

Face to face, one whistles, one listens

The napkins fill with cognitive snapshots

The poet drowns in words

Just wanting to say something

Or hear it said at all

The dying words from a poet’s mouth

Blow about in autumn color

Drifts and piles that shape the years of practice

What’s worth saying has to be said by someone

So a poet goes looking and would suppose

That words rubbed together right would produce

Word museum sentences ripe with meaning

Phantasms haunting great books and minds

Torches lighting the way for all

The poet takes aim and fires

At the fog of meaning

He tugs at God’s coat tail