On Seeing "Truman Capote"

The poetry
calls out to me,
slow limpid,
moistly,
but I have to find the thought.

This poetry is
lost in muddles. A tone, toneless.
I see drops of saline,
hear a slow wet march
but can't find the thought.

I know, poetry
will be in words that break logic
someone's confession,
secrets in memories, gates
fragile and slowly opened.