wondering out loud

If poetry is a tool
then why are we ignominious fools?
When we reach orgasm
do we ever turn back?

Is there a place for poets to go
where the destination is a marked card we play
and the distance of memory meets
with blind inculcation, binding each to the other?

There is field where Rumi dances with words and we
learn to write in his Holy Braille,
touching one another deep enough to
expose our own vulnerability.

Give me Grace, give me a night filled with stars,
give me penance to do,
I love you too much to send this poem to you.
We are water birds, drowning with emptiness.

Crying out loud like the loon against the moonlight.