This voice sounding puzzled,

tasting old words

as if they have new flavours,

this is me

speaking as a poet;

transcribing real moments

into words

that hang together briefly.


They rise from ordinary things,


my gratitude for socks,

the toilet paper holder

loose on the wall

and needing attention


and when I pause to see,

the poem takes shape.


This is me also finding voice

as an innkeeper,

less practical

than my colleagues

but equally welcoming.


The innkeeper I rejected

as too small,

bound in too much tending.


The poet I rejected

for the opposite same,

a purposeless attention.


I have been a poet

since the first day

I discovered that words

could be cut

more easily than paper,

glued more easily

than the other crafts.


The core of my professing

is how this tending and welcoming

live here.

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