I have inherited a worthless gift:
the gift of words,
an impotent wind
that cannot shake the feeblest branches of this world,
cannot support a nest, cannot roll a stone,
cannot even feed the poet who gives his blood, and burns
upon its crucible
his soul.
It is a worthless practice, yet I am committed to it
for reasons hard to distill,
like trying to discern the features of a mountain through a maze of trees.
I am compelled to poetry
like a moth is compelled to confuse
a lantern flame for starlight.
To ash, to salt
to the dust that comprises the firmament of dreams,
a bird given the gift of wings under the sea.