Featured Poet: Mark Nepo


I have worked months
on lines like these.
But I am not these lines nor
the effort to shape them.

Not the notes I poke
in the evening when words fail,
nor the silence between
the piano’s darkened keys.

Now that I have written books
I find I am not a book.
Now that I have sung
bouquets of song, I confess
I am not the song.

Now that I have loved,
I discover what I am
shows itself to be touched
but is not the touch.

Even when seeing the wind
tease red leaves into the hair
of innocent women,

even when loving
the instant of seeing,
I am not what is sighted
nor the instant it is seen.

Undressed of all there is to do,
I vanish in a gesture
that is everywhere.