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Poem

No secret poets are fond
of stars and dreaming -- 
of gazing and seeming: 
using one's mind as a
portal, focusing crystal -- using
the heart, to capture as
a vessel,  all that is clean
and unclean -- no flat safe
of a writer is he...  daring

               pens 
wallows in dear slobbers
like bacterized faces of dog
lovers, equally affectionate scratches
he wincingly endures 
as his feline shreds  
making more opaque the steely
curtains purring deeper into veiled 
folds of day and night -- 
unlike those
who keep the world
firm on proper axis turning, 
the poet off tilts
transposes
confounds convention with broader
gyrating mystery, elevates to 
novel royalty
that which would
otherwise remain
mere serviceable
far too primary
for his quaking soul
basic impressions of 
dark and light --

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