the good poet and his love

what’s in a thanks, anyway, and why
do we tell each other to do it —
save him, he’ll not speak, directly,
to you or even about, but, rather, he

will always seek what is most high,
so as to bare all for all to so see to it,
come to terms with what burns brightly;
within every good heart is a soul, to be!

nothing revelational, no, who can tell
if something comes first and then last,
how to separate a thought from feeling—
meaning is kinda tricky like that but,

there’s a beat to anything you can sell,
like the one seated inside your chest,
and whether it’s sealed away or singing,
someone’s listening, so go with your gut—

be you, he means to say, the prouder voice
or humbled denizen happening on his path,
he, with wondrously world wide white words,
will mark you down and lift up your name—

without even saying it; you were the choice
made—really, that’s the trick, basic math:
one plus one so one is won in hoards;
the endless possibilities for all the same.