Sometimes I don't know what I am reading but know the words have been put together like a secret puzzle
that reveals itself in my body,
so that tears come; bidden from some ancient
or childhood land with minarets and camels.
What do they know that I don't?
These fat tears on their swaybacks, dreamlike,
stepping forth, becoming real. Evidence
of the conversation
below the conversation, below silence, the one
I din't know was carrying on until
the poets with their puzzles
like radio signal decoders
Grain, The Journal of Eclectic Writing