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.