The Poet Breaks

If life is a poem

when will my stanza end?

I have to break the line

what follows is new.

 

If I am whole, cut from concrete.

Lapis lazuli sky embraces sunny yellow

paints the grass green, an easel of words flow

on a turpentine breeze.

 

If I crack, adrift in the beauty of abstract

words once loved suddenly despised.

I am jammed against an embankment

marking time, for resolution, the volte

 

waiting –

to imitate, for the line break.