33'

The next poem will be pulled 
from the moonlight.
it will be a falling star
it will be a burning branch.
The next poem will climb down
from the mango tree while 
I’m dreaming and 
sneak away before I wake.
The next poem I will plant
beneath my own skin,
I will walk in the rain 
and allow her to bloom
The next poem I won’t even write.
It will descend with the sun,
it will be a walk home 
next to my shadow.

I am a sword maker
and my blade 
is my pen; I sharpen 
words until they curve
beautifully and sink deeply 
into the skin of the earth;
I drill with my blade and
unleash the rivers of
blood’s experience,
staining the dirt, and
blushing the sky.
My poetry has become 
the colors of my flesh, lust
and blood - words towering
from mountains high,
to valleys low,
where the sun rises,
and the moon sets.
My poetry is earth’s song,
bejeweled with emerald 
valleys and sapphire 
oceans; the earth is 
my poem.