Monday Poem

Jim Culleny

Sometimes a poet will sail
the line of a poem
like Leonardo DiCaprio:

a figurehead on
arms spread, embracing the wind,
the air, the fabulous future,
poised before the next word,
only to find it isn’t there:
the right word,
the one that says it all,
the one that pulls the rabbit out of the hat of the poem,
that drops scales from blind eyes,
that gives ears their plum and brain its due
and (without the need to be said)
ends its longing for what the heart
already knew