Where does poetry live,
thrive, bloom, spill
the universal love
making us all?

Does poetry feel well
pressed in books,
pressed on the shelves?
Should poetry be
written on the wall along the street?
Should it be free
from any construction,
just spelled out aloud
or kept in the heart
for those who can hear it
just as the secret
of this loving universe?

Through my eyes,
my hands and my presence,
will I be able
to go beyond meanings,
be poetry pure, purely living?