I find the beginnings of poems on the bus,
When the sky is still pinkredorange and changing,
And people are wiping sleep from their dream-worn eyes.
I usher these found poems into fruition,
In both fresh and saline water,
Like a midwife welcoming a birth-ripe infant from the womb to its mother’s milky breast,
When the sky has returned to inky dark,
And the moon glares with its one open omniscient eye.
They write themselves in fits and starts — these poems,
In quivers and trembles,
In gut-punches and sweet caresses
Felt from deep within my restlessness.
Images and feelings bubble to the surface
When I feel the heat of bodies around me,
When I feel the weight of existence around my shoulders,
Yours, mine, ours,
Like a wet fur blanket that I can’t pull off.
My thoughts churn and flood,
A whirlpool of Me and All,
And I must channel the flow to a singular point in three dimensions,
Though they originate from far beyond here.
But… I find these poems;
They are not Mine;
They are Ours.