A poem can be an ordinary thing
slight, hardly noticed
like a sentence
in a long novel,
insubstantial
in its self
a poor little thing
conveying a thought.
Isolated from the tremulous
racket of all the other voices,
why is it
here at all?

Do we breathe?
Would one breath stand out
among all the others –
and if it failed
went missing
would we be
here at all?

12.12.10