Poems need not rhyme
though they may desire it. Like water

desires a cup. And to be drunk,
stumbling the streets of Venice, carousing and eddying.
Poems are keys on the mind’s ring,

unlocking, enabling, catalyzing.
Images arise at will, spurred on by
the shape, the sound, the transcendent nature of words
and their gatherings.

Unordered and random to the untrained eye, yet
as any gazer of stars can tell you,
words are fated, freewilldriven,

always inevitably
placed
just
so.