The Poet Writes in I

The poet writes in I

because she knows

no other language.

We is a continent,

& a poet must be

an island.

She is an inlet.

He is a peninsula.

They is the great engulfing sea.

The poet writes in I

as the clock

strikes on metal,

as the bee wing

flies on honey,

as trees are rooted

in the sky.

I is the language

of the poet’s inner chantings:

a geography of sadness,

a metronome of pain,

a map of elevations

in the jungled heart.