santos scribes

 I miss the curve of you 

your long, snaking lines 

pink with their meaning 

meaning only, I (will never fully) understand 

the fire I contain (for you) 

is not fire at all 

it is cold and clear and terrible;  

ripe, round mountains  

peaks of a book 

an explosion of sky 

the thick neck of a leaf 

heavy with its gravity

here, I am crazy and strange  

and it is revered:  

my crazed strangeness; 

oxygenated ambition,  

lightning stuck footnotes 

bones of kindling

an abandoned page 

and the moment I begin to piece it apart- 

to separate the stars from the sun  

clean-up the dirty black tee shirt of my mind 

-it vanishes 

like ice in a glass 

cloudy and swirling,  

an irreversible day 

*ars poetic : a poem about poetry; or how the poet embodies her craft.