Poetry is the sound
The wind makes
As it circles your soul
And everything is second-hand
All of it spent air
Turned around and around
And we sit here
In the commonplace
Rinsing the air
And rubbing the threads
Of patterns worn down
Abraded by familiarity
Yet still we come
To gather round in spell-bound hope
Ready as ever to witness
To be in thrall
To absolutes
And know that we can find
In everything
A little of the new