The Dolphin Poem

Biting the back of my index finger
on my left, less prominent hand.

Feeling the tension, feeling the wet
of the little spit leaking out.

My eyes close and I hold the pose
for a few seconds, then stop.

Maybe it will matter someday
what I say here about what I did?

I doubt it will make much difference
to anyone, anyone at all.

The moment will pass by almost all
like a dolphin just offshore —

a pretty sight, yes, but so common.
Still, it might cause a thrill; so might this

poem, or whatever it is. I can’t call it that.
Isn’t it too small to hold such a large weight?

Anything I write holds so little and yet
so much. Like a dolphin hurtling

through gray waves — alone or with
others — doesn’t concern itself

with what the watchers think.
It’s too large to hold such small thoughts.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T