This Is Like That

In eight lanes of rumble and tick
whine and click of engines halt
and go
I don't know
how I heard them . . .

Poetry happens. To the poet and to the reader. The effect, for both, should be roughly the same. Something remarkable occurs. The poet forges that something into a poem capable of making it happen again for the reader. Maybe you hate poetry. Some do. But it's calling for you, like those geese honking across the sky at sunset.