Panic

I am writing poems, more poems, about him.

It has occured to me in a fluttering panic

that my shoddy attempts might be the only poems about him -

just imagine.

My cliches and half-rhymes and failures to rhyme

my struggles to structure and clumsy enjambement

completely unable to capture his light doing injustice

to his smile insulting him by their very existence but still;

existent.

The poetry equivalent of a four-year-old's portrait of God,

the first time someone throws clay on a wheel,

a cave painting I am daubing on the walls of my own heart

but something

raw and primitive and childish, maybe, but then it is new -

it will be a genre, the love-poem-of-the-untalented

the one who is so dumb they cannot write to you

but tries anyway.

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