It Isn’t Time for Poetry Yet

It isn’t time for poetry yet. There will be time when the time comes, it is not now but nigh. When it comes you will know it by the look on its face. It will nod to you and you will be dragged along by the force of a glance. You will be ridden on roughshod and this will not be a problem but a privilege. You know this feeling because it has been felt inside before. You have locked the doors and shuttered the windows. But you often forget the backdoor, and one window is somehow always left open. Like a loophole. 

You know in your heart of hearts that there will never be a way to secure yourself from this demanding goodness. This force that eats you alive and spits out the bones. You are demolished, devoured, destroyed again and again by this arrival. It does not leave much behind – leaves you nothing you can boast of except your own disappearance. And it is not easy to boast when you are no longer here or anywhere any more. 

This is why you still believe in locks and entry codes, in screens and window curtains. You like being here, being you, being limited in time and space. It can be uncomfortable to inhabit infinite possibilities when you have grown accustomed to the snugness of the straitjacket. This is why you attempt to be invisible. 

But your attempts are ostrich-like. Head in the sand and all the rest of you oddly positioned above it. Your absurdity inadvertently draws poetry’s attention. The way a honeycomb’s sweetness inadvertently attracts bears. 

Both yield very quickly, to deliciously sticky situations.