Splash

Poems aren’t made, they happen and then they are,
lapidary, meaning trails after words,
a sauce made through and by experience
poured over silence of what has been said

uncertain concentration before urge 
precipitates, as dew from morning mist,
and coats a torpid tongue, intoxicates
as a liquor might do, so stirs to speech

this happens, no why, no ap…