Poetry. That stained-glass distillation
of the wine of life, the fires,
the bleeding edges, the small quick
night bites. What it means to spin the sun
into the live wires, the ties that bind,
the gold thread in the bloodred tapestry.
Poetry says look under the carpets, under the stairs,
in the black crack of the lightening-struck tree.
(there is a world there that seeps into this one)
Look with your heart in your mouth—
not out of fear, but because this is the way
to taste your life. Shape the hidden things
into sound, wrestle their energy into words.
The definition of word:
a diamond dripping in a shaft of light.
