I am not sure what I am saying
in poems, most of the time.
Half the time.
Or why the insipidity of my speech
is better than grand phrases.
I am perhaps just a thing that talks.
A carousal of sound,
stored in winter, where
the wind howls in the gears
and through the benches.
People look away then,
until mimicry whistles a tune,
and I am windblown on the paper.
I like to listen to people
talking among themselves.
To be astonished by something beautiful
in something someone says,
and repeat it carefully.
To give its plan wonderful expression,
the sensitivity it deserves,
and then hear someone say,
you have a way with words,
and I say to myself
I am surrounded by poets.