Where It Lay

Poetry.

It lay

just beyond the

murky, silent (whole)

confluence of being.

It appears and resides

as an image, and then

a word.

Poetry is born,

thus –

out of pure, raw being,

and not experience.

For, experience must always

arise after image;

after word.

It is the lapping noise

of the ocean on the sand,

on the rocks along the

coast of coldness and

of warmth.

It is the trailing

vapor of a cloud

as it leaves itself

to shift itself

in mist or rain, in

forms and torrents.

Always out from

and just before it

happens itself

into an experience.

There is the vital power

of the word upon

the soul and sound

upon the heart.

Born at once

with utterance and

sight.  But

always roiling

at a slow boil from

the murky, silent (whole)

confluence of being.

Always to

become.