until the beat is through

you can't ever think 

his words true and for you,

the poet; his aims are as puny as "him"

or they are made from everywhere around you.  

so make him yourself,

like a quantum particle here and there

all at once see both where he is and going,

honor the uncertainty principle, entangle the affairs. 

then you don't say he or the moment

or even direction—the intensity unlike speed

but a branching-out with all good intentions building;

unlike height, scope; strength, hope; power, faith; value, virtue. 

because nothing is unless something

isn't, right? a matter of falsifiability at heart,

the thing in question in twain, unimaginable otherwise—

all the poetry, the conversation, the nay and the yay, in loving duty. 

(and thinking itself, a metaphor—made for itself;

what ever actually happens, beyond (the) thought. 

compare the orange to the apple, we talk about fruits; 

the words to the world, peas in a pod please and say "perhaps", reflection is the real)