Poetry is the Thing

Poetry is the thing that tries

to describe all the noises

of the head and the heart

without being neurologic

or circulatory.

Poetry is the thing that makes

love seem more real, or less

real, or painful, or joyful, or

angry, or like a swift kick in

the bum.

Poetry is the thing that clears

some of the fog of war, of

disagreements, of

misunderstandings, of lost

thoughts.

Poetry is the thing that helps

explain why the questions are

there, why the answers are there,

where the answers might be and

where those answers vanished.

Poetry is the thing that greases

the wheel, shifts the gears,

turns the cog, sets the time,

sounds the bells and fuels

the engines.

Poetry is the thing that starts

fires in hearts, in souls, in eyes,

in kisses, in sex, in gentle touches

of comfort during a thunderstorm,

in the dark.

Poetry is the thing that melts

the hard, strengthens the weak,

shores up the wobbly, lifts the falling,

balances the unbalanced, and dries

cried-out tears.

Poetry is the thing that tries

to explain a musing, sore heart  and

make us remember the blood in

our veins can boil or cool.

Poetry is that thing.