Poetry is a bit like photography

In that the lighting needs to be just so,

And the moment – it passes all too quickly,

Far too swiftly to be recorded at its purest,

And the reader, the viewer,

The person in Communion with the art,

Will never see your world

With the same exactitude;

Yes, their world rivals yours

In clarity and complexity,

And perhaps even the twain do meet,

Somewhere at a crossroads

In Idaho,

One car turning slightly

To give the right of way to the other;

The encounter is brief,

And is quickly forgotten

In the midst of the other infinitude of moments

Stacked together in your memory

Like the pages of a book.