The more said about a poem the less it becomes. —Charles Bukowski

yes, it may be about…sure, it could be about…no, it’s not about…“Sigh”

some are taped to the backs of works of art—might be about art or not

the damp ones drying on the clothes line dancing in the warm autumn rain are about

that one that goes on forever becomes a blanket on lonely frigid nights [you certainly can hear the whisper of what that is about]

those locked in cages under the staircase began to scare me—I keep feeding those words anyway

the ones in shoe boxes held together with elastics on the top shelf of the bedroom closet are from college days [typically planned out]—they will forever remain in the dark

you can hear the screams coming from that one about what it’s all about

this one with David’s line “He’s about as useful as a shirt without a pocket.” was written in Maine

this one I am wringing tears out of is about blue; the unfinished one on the counter is trying to unravel the sexual politics of red

those that have tucked themselves into layers of stones stacked on beaches or on mountain tops tell me they are meditations

some I folded into paper air planes—they just didn’t fly

some are so putrid and unforgivable they were used to wrap fish

don’t trip over that batch on the path on your way out, they’re full of thorns—didn’t have time to rake them up and burn them before you dropped by

                                                                                                                                                                                               —Bonnie Thompson Enes