Why I am Not a Poet

I shall not trespass in the dark
so much. The dark is full
of wonder and landmines,
private gardens, raindrops and Mozart.
The dark holds no names, forgives
transgressions, exalts dreams.
The scratchy dark wool of sleepless
night rubs its beard on my
exposed shoulder.
I shall not trespass in the dark.

Maybe I will appear more
often in the fading
evening light, haunt the corners,
say words, and name names.