They take leave through open windows
on paper rafts and day-dream passages.
They meander through a haze of
jumbled letters and words shunted in and out of space.
But after that, where do the lost poems go?
Do they await a collection from a lost poem depot,
stacked high and wide in crates and boxes of metal and wood?
Perhaps they idle in hexagonal storerooms,
awaiting rescue from Babel’s 410 page crimson bound collections.
Or maybe they desire to be something else, and seek out Richard Brautigan’s
house, queuing at his door, seeing if they can join with his plumbing.
Do they become snagged in tree branches, tagged by birds,
before being weaved into nests of twigs and twain?
Perhaps they are washed away when crossing rivers,
snatched by leaping trout, swallowed by lurking catfish.
Or maybe they cross the river, and run free from verse and form,
darting and dancing among vast forests and vague mountains.
Do they get lost in ether’s thick and thin,
plucked down by passers-by with butterfly nets?
Perhaps they morph into other poems,
sometimes similar, sometimes one line survivors.
Or maybe they fade into busy cafe airs,
faded among the azure fogs of teas and coffees.
Or maybe, just maybe
the lost poems never exist.
Perhaps they are just appearances, illusions of words
until they are scribbled onto a page
their abstraction given form.
This should end soon. Maybe.