if you and i
are poetry,
then surely
we are

the free verse kind.

the kind
that starts
with one singular
thought
attaching
itself
to another

smiles shyly,

then spills
into a literary
courtship
of word
kissing word
shoving phrase
mounting fragment
licking sentence.


if you and i
are poetry,

then we are the kind
that stumbles
only occasionally
into rhythm,

declining
the invitation
to fall into
that one beat per second
boot heel against pavement
fingertips against hardwood
floor me right now
and let's meet at the end
of the rose-petaled aisle
routine.


if you and i
are poetry,

then we must be
the scattered kind,
where no shape
nor form
nor logical explanation
exists

where words appear
quite beautifully
romantically
suddenly
out of nowhere,

without purpose
or reason
or any underlying
thought,


if you and i
are poetry,

then we are
the kind
that starts out slowly,

( smiling coyly one stanza,
unbuttoning the next. )

proceeds to quiet ache
yearns for one verse
contemplates another page
dedicated solely to memory

then stops

abruptly,
unexpected

and perhaps
even a tad
unfinished.



(    if you and i are poetry, we are the unspoken kind.   )