I, too, like it
more than many other things.
The way it enters
without knocking and is there.
The way it occupies a page
floating as if in a lake of milk.
And how the end of every line
pulls me back to the center.
Not to mention
what can happen only here:
a grown man turning into a flower
a star falling into your lap,
a tiger on fire in the night,
or a child in an imaginary garden
pointing a finger at a real toad
while she looks back at her mother.