A poem is a naked person, the winter force

Through the green fuse to drive extra flowers —

That so,

Some persons say I’m a poet. Sweating,

A healer is one of a few who drive my green rage —

One who understands the responsibility that emerges
Amidst roots of poetry’s trees.
(Phosphate, the fallen blood shall calm her sores.)

And I have dined under poetry’s arbors with queens and kings.

I’m dumb now to tell the royals I’ve been offered wings.

Land-locked, royals are bent by the same wintry fevers

And I’ve never been that impressed.