the silence of the heavens

what poems do you have left

you must give yourself to them

not because they will be good or right

or even worth writing

but because they will be yours

like nothing else

even if the words are borrowed from people

long since dead

even if they’re stolen from a future you

will not make it to

even if you end needlessly on a preposition

that lingers to go on

to somewhere very poetic

like a spring day where salmon contest the waterfalls

with the unhesitant life

while the sun is too bright

and the water too cold

and the bears are around

sniffing a way to patch the night up

with a sense of satisfaction that no one

has found yet

including the gods

who made it all

to one day be unmade

perhaps in spring

or when you are writing a poem

or when there is nothing left

except to say that

and even then

it is too much

most of the time