Poem by Jim Culleny

Figurehead

A poet sails the line of a poem
like a ship’s figurehead,
arms spread in a twenty-knot breeze
embracing 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, that
pulls the rabbit out of the hat of the poem,
that drops scales from blind eyes,
that gives ears their prize and brain its due
and, with the barest need to be said
fulfils its longing for what the heart
always knew

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