Dear Poet,

Make them listen, with words

that rumble their insides,

and turn them outside,

fearing poets, again,

like they fear truth:

a mirror, a reflection,

a solid witness to a crime.

When you say you’re a poet

make the whole world tremble

when they hear it.

Yesterday’s beauty is rarely enough for today,

like manna from heaven, it rots, decays,

disappears back, which is to say,

we do not know where, but look up, out,

beyond, and do the same again, everyday—

believe me, you are a starving soul,

lost as hell, hungry, but the universe

is a feast, prepared–

even on its worst days, it offers

up a prayer, beckons you to step

into the mystery: step through snow,

through rain, through wind, with arms

held out, eager to horde–

every bite,

every drip,

every mouth full.

I’d ask you to overlook my sins,

but it would be too late,

my old friend, you left me

at the first sign of trouble,

and you stayed gone, gone—

like a song you want to sing,

but forgot the lyrics,

and have to hum, hum.

I told you I was more weed than flower,
but did you believe me?
Instead, you waited until I’d gone
to seed, plucked me from the ground,
made your wish, and blew me out
across the spring pasture.