Hunting The Unwritten Poem Poem by Ken Craft

You see them in the sliding
light of water, the expanding
slips of silver where trout
breathe. You hear
them in the sleepy kiss
of rainfall on pine-
needles, sniff them
as if they were snow
to the west.

Like a dead bird's eye,
they lose luster
the moment you kill them to
glean their secrets. They
close mute membranes,
hide. From across the field,

a crow's dark instincts
distinguish men with sticks
from men with.22s.
Poems are world-wary too. Hear
the whistle of wing lift
as they take flight.

The Muse bides time
like Dali's clocks.
Look again - an
unwritten poem shifting
in the wind, an open
wound of torn air.