It is here
in this half-cold night
seated around a table
with a dry leaf falling every now and then
and our laughter slow and easy
that ones finds the true poetry of life
not in the heavy texts of
Shakespeare and the scholars
not even underneath my pen
(all though I try)
but no
it is here
in the bottom of a half-empty glass,
hideen underneath a napkin
and behind someone's lose strands of hair
It's right here.