White Space

There is so much white space
in most books of poetry
that when you come upon
a poem that speaks to you,
or better yet sings,
you can find yourself

falling into that white void,
tumbling into a vision
played out with paper and ink,
words racing past you,
images dancing around you,
until you land

at the end of a page,
hard or soft or in between,
or better yet in some way
you have never known before,
in a place that you never
even knew existed.