You, with your golden words
like guineas gained from a spinning craft,
all that verse is ideal sanction.

I am fiction–
a faint and faraway
floating feather,

a smear of wings, smirched
as a moth in the lamppost awning,
predictable as the dawning of Aquarius,
humming about
as if all were well on the corner of my street.

You are earth and flesh and all that
is profound and mystifying, intense
as a child in a nightmare running from the dark
to nowhere in particular,
Mercury grappling with the firmament,
Apollo riding the sun across the sky,
crying, cursing all the while.

There is a fire that lights our souls,
it’s the same spark that gave us life;
sometimes we are lost and misunderstood.

We are complexities of the universe
painting hearts on simple parchment skin;
we are the poets about whom the sages write.