Once in Thetford forest,
we walked drinking cider
from a plastic jug, tripping
over our own thoughts when
Loretta mentioned something
she heard from a friend,
or from her sister Shelly,
which made me think of Chaucer.
What her story was, or which tale,
now is lost in my memory;
but thirty years ago, I saw strands
of meaning interwoven like
mist between a darkening wood:
Poetry sang directly to a few,
who in turn spoke to a neighbor
across a fence, who told a friend,
who late one night alone
over a drink had an idea
first hinted at by two
people he had never met.
(June 2012)
subtext 
All out of our control; all starting, or at least projected into the future, by poetry.
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Nice. All the random streams of ideas that flow into the present.
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