Inside our heads

Poetry is best heard
inside our heads.
A spaceless voice.
An articulated choice.
A resonance from a past
we wish we had.

Some might call it
heaven,
blossom,
or crystal gold.
Poetry is a secret that
should never have been told.

Poetry is a weapon
hidden in a book.
A garment in a wardrobe,
waiting for a king to wear it
or a peasant with a better look.
A hat held low
in the hand of a beggar
who ask passersby
—Do you have a dime or a fag to
spare?

A list of wonders.
A necklace of pearls,
that you are about to give away
for free, or a wish
slumbering on the edge of a well
like an overripe fruit hanging on a tree.

Some might call it
a valve,
letting the air
flow through,
before the sound of a trumpet
hits the bell.
A burning lava stone.
A needle at the end of the
arm of a turntable,
standing beside your bed,
capturing vibrations
you should have kept
inside your head.