when parallel lines intersect
This poem cannot fully express its intricacies because art skims like mist on waters that cannot grasp meaning quickly enough to register depth to any profound degree.
This poem would prefer to be a leisurely wave caressing a tidal shore as it rests against the sands of distant lands and laps up images of stars.
This poem would love to sit quietly in the back row of a foreign cinema absorbing the swirling fractals of a film as geometric as a nightscape by Van Gogh.
This poem wants to be a stiletto drive by’s whispered threat as a stunned eyewitness spills a slurpee on his shoe.
This poem wishes it had said/done/been more
This poem wishes it had asked more probing questions
This poem wishes it could be a semi-psychotic preamble to greater strangeness
This poem, like a stirring madness, will never be complete
This poet will never be finished...