JOHNMICHAEL SIMON POETRY

for these things

that come from nowhere

pass through me

head to fingertip

carrying each time

some tiny dampness

of me

on to the paper

to dry as I do

remain visible when

I evaporate

 

some faint vapor

of these things

lingering under trees

the faintest

of fragrance

in the morning

 

a small group of

people reading and

nodding to the rhythm

words ascending

through branches

 

just an audience

under trees

on a sunny day