In the activity beneath the surface,
below the conscious permission I give to thought,
that is where I find the poetry, such as it is.

It is where the old hippy lady walks a white cow of a dog.
It is where the dancer with electricity in her bones,
spins like a pinwheel galaxy in the dark desert night.
Where daydreams take me to a bench at the end of it all,
so I can watch the answers to all my questions parade past.
A place where, like an empty bowl, an empty head can be useful.