Singularity

Sometimes
I wonder what the point
of a poem is.
The graceful bend
of word and tongue.
To make language
more than a casual friend
whom one fucks
for no other reason
than convenience.

Who, but you,
could follow a poet's mind
down the tracks
of a truth that lie
inside a verse.
How does one
cut through the bullshit
that obscures some
single point of knowledge
or of love or of hate.
What life does a poem have
if her meaning escapes
the tracks it was set upon?