hard not to see
poets as penitentes flaying
their brains for a line. They have
imaginary tattoos that can’t be removed.
They think of themselves as mental Zorros riding
the high country while far below moist and virginal señoritas
wait impatiently in the valley. Poets run on rocks barefoot when
shoes are available for a dime. They stand on cliffs but not
too close to the fatal edge. They have examined their
unfamiliar motives but still harvest the
wildflowers they never planted.
The horizon has long since
have this idea
that they have been cremated
but aren’t quite dead. Their ashes are eyes.
At night the stars sprinkle down upon them like salt.
At noon they are under porches with the rest of the
world’s stray and mixed-breed dogs, only
momentarily noticed, and are never
petted except by children