when it's understood

i enjoy poetry like i enjoy
nothing else. the playfulness of the
lines, the well-placed words,
each one necessary,
nothing wasted,
all in place,
purpose and destiny enfolding
before my eyes.
but not all poems
are understood.
some work their grief upon me,
and it's then that i enter the
cemetery to the crossroads
of roughly paved streets with cracks
and grass poking through,
to get a handle of the meaning of it all.
it's as if the spirits of the dead
surrounding me lift up for a moment
to whisper in my ear
the content i'm missing,
absent where they are
but brought to where i am,
and i'm filled
with knowledge found
once again on a page
they can never hold again.
so i hold it for those
and we do each other
this one last favor.