Them Kind

Poets, a 

secret race

unacknowledged

by skin color. 

In my time

I've felt a few of them (eyes aren't much

of a help in the

matter). They

pass, in person

or, in the 

traditional way,

out of person, 

and some part of myself catches the rest

in recognition. 

"That was

a man or

woman, wasn't

it?" Or is 

gender just

the alibi? The

real ones don't

prove or fake. 

They

don't even put it to words. Except

to open up

old smart

calm places

between them. 

Anyone would be pulled apart by the vacation of 

having stood

even briefly

in one--a sharp

composed

resonant ride

beneath skin. 

That calm there has already been your mother,

with plans

    to be you 

    as well. 

They don't need you to read them. 

Eyes beside 

 

no point worth making. 

They need you to live them.