Metatopos

I love the poems you reread at night,
The ones you whisper secretly, alone
In quiet syllables, without a light,
In moments when you want to toss and moan.
I like to linger in their writing, too,
And think of how you'll read them on your own,
And thinking of it, do as you will do,
Amazed to see my love once more has grown
Where I believed it maximized already.
Most of all, I think what was unknown
But has now been conveyed: a sudden, heady
Mixture of the unseen and the shown
Which motivates my writing, and which gives
The sense in which each reread poem lives.