gray0328

What You Find in the Mud

What You Find in the Mud

 

Poetry is what you find in the mud 

in the corner, overhear on the bus,  

a woman scratching her ankle, her  

breath heaving from walking uphill.  

 

It lives in the glint of a knife, gleaming  

against the skin of a pear, how it  

trembles before being peeled, the  

peel curling toward the hand’s heat.  

 

There’s a man shouting at pigeons,  

his face red with all the rage of  

a life misunderstood. He stops when  

he sees me, eyes wide like forgiveness.  

 

Poetry is the flutter of an eyelid, the  

brittle gasp of winter breath through  

a wool scarf, the way shadows throb  

against a lit window—aching to be known.