The edge
of my seat
is bent from me sitting here.
Stand up, I tell myself.
A poem can’t save the world. Get
to it.
When I step away from the poem
for a moment,
a world builds itself upon the paper.
When I come back, the room’s underwater
and the poem rises above it,
a white seaport, everything sails toward it.
I go and sit on its docks. What was it
I was thinking before, before the new world
rose in the heart of the poem?
