*muffled cursing from the next room*

I am not a poet but even I can rhyme.
Some people are like oceans or like sweet words or like fire.
I could compare you . . . no. I'm not that much a liar.
If you're like anything concrete, you are like time.
But time itself is not poetic. Sound's not from the wire
Of the violin that cries, it shakes the air, makes it chime.


I've known people who glowed like moons, lunar poetry,
To moon about like swans who drift on placid lakes;
People who commit poetry like loons, where all can see.
I know people who live in patterns, sometimes real, some fakes.
Let's see: how can I make you prettier than me?
It's something to aim for; we'll just do what it takes.


But you're hard to unravel, a Gordian knot that mocks.
You're sometimes steady, like a hundred ticking clocks.
You're almost unrelenting: grinding mill that talks.
You're oriented like thin-soled boots on cobbled walks?
Hrm.
You are not described. None of my words can lock you in a box.