Later you figure things out,
you can’t blame her for fearing to lose
what you’re hoping to gain.
At the time, however, on your monk’s bed,
you believe having promise is enough.
Where you come from, that’s more than almost anyone’s got.
But there you go.
That’s how poor people think.
By reading this poem.
Or actually, no, sorry,
by reading this you’ve in fact injested
poetic cookies, which are non-material,
semi-nutritive enzymes that excrete a
phosphorous-like substance in the brain.
While benign, these cookies do produce
occasional light shows in the cranial cavity.
If you are against cookies –
if you are really sure you really
do not like cookies and will not
accept out cooky policy
(but who doesn’t like cookies?),
then you can remove them by simply
returning in time to before
you hit the jackpot.
It seemed like a fine plan,
writing Himself into His own work,
to taste and be tasted –
descending in scarlet,
sinking to flesh –
but who knew the life of man
was a brutal current turning,
slow and wide
then swifter and deeper
till the sky
a little white circle climbing
Poetry is my protection against terror.
It fortifies no wall but collapses the one
behind which I find myself cowering.
I’m embarrassed to find myself there.
Poetry is every word in the question,
What are you afraid of?
It leads me outside.