Poetry doesn't spill like
this in truth. In reality. It only
Fountains forth like a baby bird's wings when
Rain pours into a parched mouth and
you can only understand the drip drip drip
of the beggar.
Inspiration does not spiral
into the hands of a poor child
at the street's corners, where she asks
for breadcrumbs like they are gold.
It only holds people in tenuous
threads, hanging and spinning,
"This is not
Coherence. Making sense is for
people not in
Love. Numbness is not
for the sober."
Does this make me a lover? Does this make me a
Drunkard of the world,
where I threaten to eat all I cannot feel
or taste or smell,
For my sight is blurred by the thing
That has bought the right to my
hands and mouth, my mind.
Let me love you, my dear. I so wish
To fall in love. Let your eyes close
Like mine did when I
broke the heart of a boy I used to
Cherish. And let me dance,
Flicker across the darkness of your
bedroom floor and walls, and be rhythms
against the mattress,
Make you feel something I thought
you might have lost.