And Poetry?

by Philip Gross

What are you selling? Nothing. Poetry?

Imagine a shaved monk, begging bowl

in cupped hands, offering up

 

like a gift, a free gift. Nothing, clear

as water, settling till it holds your face

and the faces that crowd in behind you

 

almost steady, or shivered minutely

by a heartbeat, someone’s. Let it settle

deeper, till you see right through

 

to dented clay like the face of the moon,

and dust specks lifting, turning, as caught up

in their own world as me or you.