The Poet’s Secret

I go to make some poem,

and as I start, this one is

not yet there on the page but

it lingers in his brain’s mind.

This poem at this juncture 

could go in a number of 

directions, I’m aware, but

for now ‘tis like I, unformed.

It might speak of direction,

itself, . . . seeking to answer

the query, Who’s directing?,

which at once begs the question,

Just what is the origin 

of this poem?  So far, then,

the whence and whither of it

come precisely into play.

In a way I’ve clued you in,

for already you’ve been told 

the poem’s fine location,

it doth linger, his brain’s mind.

Of course, you cannot see by 

his eyes, only through your own,

and your very view pertains 

but to you, and you alone.

So, dear reader, you also 

are very much in play here, 

and under such conditions

I will it no other way . . .

be-ing the One, the Only,

who at once, here and now, is

seeing through every eye 

all around and all the while.