A Poem Is a Verb
Strike the flint — not to watch,
but to burn. Ink runs
because the hand runs,
and the hand runs because
the heart has somewhere
it must get to before dark.
A poem is a verb:
it lifts stones from the river’s back,
hurls them into the ribs of silence.
It does not sit for portraits
or wait for polite applause;
it chews the rind, spits seeds
into the wind, dares the earth
to grow something from them.
Watch it lean into the gale,
grip the mast,
curse the horizon.
Every line a step taken barefoot
across glass, grit, memory.
And when it arrives —
breath ragged,
hands blood‑warm —
the verb is not over.
It stands there, still moving.
.