The real poets are always silent.
They can’t let their poems go.
They worship the moon,
night after night,
letting the silver play alchemy
with their hearts.
Paring thoughts into lines,
they gut, then decapitate reason,
keeping at it all night long,
until morning ends their vigil.
Moon to moon,
poets walk a thread-less bridge.
On moonless nights,
what remains is memory of trying,
the terror of watching words
grow misshapen wings.