who repair,
by their own rules,
erode, sever like rivers
are the ones: the poets!
nourish them with the ashes of childhoods past: dreams, salt, trails by fire, the poisoned fruit…
school them on the austerity of stone, the poise of the grove, the silent ploy of corpses
they are the ones: the poets!
if their bodies draw scarred bridges,
do not be in awe of their penchant for suicide
the truth?
they are no mere mortals.
beggars belief?
burn this to memory—
the poet is blood, absolute, sovereign, kin to Gods
do not hunt why
they seem
not of this world?

Art: Steve Roe

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