Sometimes my poems are shy, br tired of the scrutiny of eyes, br tired of being undressed. br br They come and snuggle br under me like baby chicks. br br Rested, they venture forth again. br Now they become eyes, br Buttonholing people on corners: br 'Pssst—help you see? ' br br Each has a mission. br Some reveal the hilarity br in the composition of matter. br Some spread the word br that the sky is falling. br Others announce a shout br of joy everywhere at 10 AM. br One tells of a revolution br already begun in the bones. br br What do I really know about my poems? br They come out of a place that, br a moment before, br I never knew was there. br br Yes, I try to shelter them, br knowing all the while br they're not mine. br That’s just the mystery br of birth and parenthood. br I can't stop this thing I prayed for now.