Where’s the Poem?

It’s not in the horizon that impedes
perception as I take my evening stroll.
I see it in that single ray that bleeds
through dying light–like tears can soak the soul.
It doesn’t live in merry nuptial fare,
or birth, or death, or other thieves of heart.
Each poet’s looked and found no fodder there–
Just standard themes to make exploited art.
It isn’t in some still life or a scape…
not in the forms we see. The interstice
contains it. It’s the axis of the shape.
The nexus gone to script. The hub of this.
Life’s rudiments inform the lines we write;
The poem hovers just beneath our sight.