In Finding Poems–

He asks, “Where do we begin?”
In his notes, he writes in place of an “a” an “e”,
and I say, “not college, not yet,
you know that comes at the end.”

But even before he sits
with his scissors
his fingers are riddled
with cut-out questions
that dangle like fish hooks
waiting for the satisfying tug
of the loose ends in his head
to become a net instead
to make sense of this shimmering school
of thought,
caught.

In a book of facts, he finds a section
delighted each line can end in a question
just like the ones he has etched within
a poem that will answer as today’s lesson
yet not lessen his quest for information
because he asks, “When can we do this again?”

Today, he finds in a book of facts, a poem,
and I find a poem in him.

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