Thinking of Other Poets

 

Poets, like old gossips,

Lean across fences of words,

Trading the ripest phrases

For a bit of sweet applause.

 

In their hands,

Verses squirm and twine,

Each stanza a thread

In love's worn sweater.

 

We kiss like accountants,

Calculating the warmth,

Making entries on the ledger

Of our lapsed wanderings.

 

I knit silence into speech,

Our pillow talk now tight stitches

On a quiet night's canvas

A pale ghost trying on his shroud.

 

The essence of us,

Thick as fog on a harbor,

We cloak our bones

In the tender arithmetic of vows.

 

We are clumsy carpenters,

Mending bridges as we cross,

Our kiss the last nail,

Pounding away the dark.