Ars Poetica

To write a poem,

find the words that stop you,

words that sock you end over end

leave you song-bloody

leave your blood singing:

find the words that feathered Icarus,

wings made of wax words that drip

and drop away and burn wherever

they crash. Dig, rip the earth apart

until the fertile dark offers up a tithe:

your poem, made of you.

To find the poem,

write it back into the sky. You

were never built for walking

any scape but clouds.