from the bottom of a lake
these words
empty of self
and of significance
burst in the evening air
and dissipate
while I bemused sit back
letting my fingers
choose for me which keys to push
and watch
with only mild surprise as words
appear like notes of music
on the page

I tell myself not every poem
needs to touch
life's nerves or dredge up
from some hidden depth
a novel creature
or a treasure lost
when galleons went down
centuries past
some songs say nothing more
than what the melody
brings to the ear
and often that's enough