Why bother with poems, if these are even poems?
This habit, this practice is for the woven net
connecting me to the world above and the world
Elsewhere–inside or below or—somewhere
elusive but always near.
Life weaves itself, just so–
Mornings, I cast this wide and battered net
over the day before and look at the catch–
lightly, look lightly at what I caught–
Shining rainbow trout?
Starfish awkwardly knotted to the rope?
Or this: walking yesterday at dusk,
streetlight flashed on above me,
woke up the night so night could begin.
That’s it. That’s all.
It happened in the world above and I saw it.
Caught in the net, and only remembered
because I just read a poem about street lamps
and even now, across town, I know
that light shone all night
and is shining still.
Puff Of Smoke Poems 