I took my poem for a midnight walk,
thinking I might find out its meaning,
what it was about, how it might talk.
I took my poem for a midnight walk:
the sky above a pin cushion of stars,
the moon a melon slice, the silver birches
leaning into obscurity, half tangible,
half immaterial; and as I paused to take
my bearings, my poem ran ahead
and lost itself among the shadowed gardens
and dark alleyways. To tell the truth
I felt relieved to be without the pull
and tug of its straining leash. I felt
light-headed, fancy-free, rid of a burden.
I took my poem for a midnight walk;
but it wanted a life of its own and fled
into a night of stars blinking like diamonds
around the moon’s shut eyelid, and the trees
sighing into a midnight wind,
unwitnessed, undescribed. I took
my poem for a midnight walk; it fled;
I got my own life back; and was content
that I could live life now a little bit
without the painful struggle to express it.