Monday, May 28, 2018

Bound to strings and words
they strain for range.
Cut the string, the kite falls.
Stop the words, the poem stays a ghost.

But bound:
see them soar, dip, dive,
wind scooping,
testing the tension,
riding it.

Be wind to my kite
that we be poem:
bound, yet free.

Tom Keene
June 22, 1999