322.365 - between the lines

there are poets
their words and lines so smoothly stitched together
they resemble a fine asphalt highway
with new tires humming over them
and I ride along transported
with never a thought of my own intruding
and where the highway ends
I get off pleased, satisfied
but not inspired

and there are other poets
whose lines and words make a more cobbled road
no tires hum here
old cartwheels creak and stagger
and thoughts of mine
leap from between the rocks
scamper off in various directions
until two or three
catch my hands and drag me along with them
to a new place where I can look back at the cobbled road
or down a hillside new to me
at the foot of which children or men play
and moonlight shares the scene with the sun
and off to the side three or four trees
give shade to the skeleton standing
watching the players dance