Author Information
I Complete You
A friend asked me yesterday if I thought
that my poems were complete.
As in, individually, I suppose.
I replied,
"As complete as a football game
or a human life.
A snapshot of time and space
carved out enough to discern."
"That's not to say
one doesn't spill over into the next.
Each one, being center to itself
but with shocking periphery.
An octopus, with arms outstretched
in each direction
holding together the rest of the world."
"Yes, I believe
we are all given that importance.
And if we are a system of cranks,
then one loose screw will account
for massive malfunction.
That if a single car breaks down,
an entire highway will exponentially drown in traffic."
"So I guess
I am complete.
You are complete.
In an incomplete sense.
Or at least,
part of a greater scheme
like links on a fence.
Break one or two
and the rats will get in."
"It's not so easily done
On a singular scale.
We are not born into enlightenment.
We are not gods.
But that is beauty in itself.
A teacher must have ignorant students to
polish her expertise."
"So maybe this poem is a baby wire-link and
I'm building the side of a fence
for you.
Or maybe it's a micro-dot of dust
that fills in a cloud.
Either way,
I'd say it's pretty complete
In an incomplete sense."
