The Poet

The poet,
dropping dreams
by syllables,
seems careless.
But orderly and sure,
she arranges and stacks
a preponderance
of evidence
against herself.
A world created with
innuendo, implications
in unfinished thoughts,
her promises
made of desire.
But the poem
does not wrinkle
smoothed sheets.
Its rhythms do not
beat or breathe.
It offers no comfort
to the solitary.
It mocks its creator
and confesses to one alone -
That is not what I meant at all.