Monday, March 7, 2022


Does a poet not
remain a poet 

even when 
they are 
restless sleeping—

worlds apart 
from any corpus 
of notoriety, 

let alone minutiae 
of rhyme schemes 
and feet—

even before 
the raw seed 
of The Idea

first perforates,
then warms in the loam 
of their dream?

For even then, 
in that darkness 
before starlight 

where no words exist, 
when nothing 
has been said, 

is not a distinct 
kind of fraught, 
fecund emptiness—

some heartrending 

made perfect-
ly manifest?