The thought occurred to me...
a while ago...
that poets are simply novelists...or better,
essayists.....with short attention spans.
But, as poets do, I set the thought aside....
for a while....
allowing it to roll around my consciousness....
or whatever that place is called
where ideas simmer and circulate
in the broth of our experiences,
inspirations and aspirations
until they are done
and then ooze forth onto the page
extruded by some uncontrollable compulsion
to affix themselves to something where they can catch
a glimpse of light before being tucked away....
....for poets are shy creatures....
hoarding these thoughts they share
with paper and ink
in the dead of night...or early light...
when they choose to venture forth
into the potentially public place
where they rest,
deciding,
whether....or to whom,
they will again appear.