Some poets are hulking ships of patience,
moored by a lilac tree
or a laundromat
waiting
waiting
for the words to drip out.
Other poets are flirtatious,
sidling up next to the smells,
yes, a cemetery can flirt back
and so they charm it
into revealing
its backstory.
I don’t know any other way
except to bully the world.
I am greedy and fast,
I’m a poet on a deadline,
and the remarkable thing is how they all surrender,
like today,
as I stood on the deck.
If I hadn’t seen the elm tree
fling her seeds into the wind,
I would have sworn
the sky was coated
in butterflies.