twenty-one.

I envy people who title a poem
"POEM". How are they so certain? What
secret surety floats between the margins,
allows them to believe that
this poem, it is a poem deserving
of no description but its existence,
a poem that will never become,
that other poem by that poet, the poem with no
title, you know the one, with
(the unicorns, the explosions, the nights
that we sat by the radio and waited
for fireflies to guide us away), no name.