the poet’s eye

for a long time I stopped
thinking of myself as a poet,
calling myself a writer,
or trying to look at the world
through a poet’s eye. many years
went by in silence, blindness
and deliberate unknowing.

but lately
I have revived
my old writing bones,
resurrected my dead poet’s
eye, and now I see things
that before I wouldn’t have
noticed: the restaurant
called Caravan of Dreams;
how the purple blooms
of the pansies planted
outside a building in my neighborhood
look like tiny screaming faces;
the record cover reading,
“Can’t We Just Start Over”
or something like that. I didn’t
write this poem quickly enough
so already I’ve forgotten
the exact wording.

let that be
a lesson to me. practice
seeing like a poet, rehearse
being a writer
until it comes as naturally
as breathing, lest the strange
and beautiful sights and sounds
you’re surrounded by
pass you by.