poem king
04/11/2010 01:09 a.m.
poem king:
he knows where all
the secret locks
are, he is jingling
an infinite set of keys
in his modest hands

he dissects
every winding thought
each artistic declaration
all the introspective monologues
he is compiling
an encyclopedia
of our heart's most
convoluted conceptions

i cry
through my fingers
on a listening page of white;
he hears--he can feel the page
still wet with tears

i hide my struggle
behind words, in between punctuation,
beneath sentence fragments

but poem king
reads them
and he knows