It is hard not to see poets as penitentes flaying their brains for a line. They have imaginary tattoos that can’t be removed. They think of themselves as mental Zorros riding the high country while far below moist and virginal señoritas wait impatiently in the valley. Poets run on rocks barefoot when shoes are available for a dime. They stand on cliffs but not too close to the fatal edge. They have examined their unfamiliar motives but still harvest the wildflowers they never planted. The horizon has long since disappeared behind them. They have this idea that they have been cremated but aren’t quite dead. Their ashes are eyes. At night the stars sprinkle down upon them like salt. At noon they are under porches with the rest of the world’s stray and mixed-breed dogs, only momentarily noticed, and are never petted except by children and fools.