we are here,
as you read this,
and you know who we are,
a thousand little lights,
the stars who live
and die.
In the eye of mind,
“a million years”
is short for “forever”
but forever is the poetry.

Still,
poetry is often used as tricks,
twists of the imagination,
longings like weeds that strangle,
tedious desires as ivy tendrils grasp;
whipped by some nocturnal frenzy,
as four mad horsemen goad
a fear that drives her demons to wit,
and so she dips black fingernails in glitz,
soft mouths glamour and silken hair
perfume smokes all the common senses:
hotter than any Christian hell
is that Garden of Eden.

I also see poetry float in the water,
where the busy fish live and feed,
and where the blood flows
when the breath leaves,
where poetry has forgotten how to fly,
her wings made heavy by the rain,
and metals drown every weeping angel:
whose ears can’t hold the great wailings of the waterfall
and little women arrange tiny flower baskets,
whispering nonsense and resonance
reflecting that they’re all so pretty,
(especially when they are in love)
naming one by one as they are born,
as weed killer remains fragrant in the air
that they breathe anyway,
as our poetry yet still breathes,
running barefoot in the sun
the drone of the cliche,
a little taste of something like
what it remembers to be home.


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