To All the Poets We Have Loved

Their words dance
on the page and we

can only bow
in poverty

to words that cut
into our life

with such a tender
little knife.

So retiring
to a taunting bed

we read
into the night instead



tasting second hand,
you see

the beauty
of that poetry.

If perhaps,
their words held less.

We might have tried
but who can guess.

We were defeated,
lost you see

By their damn,
dancing poetry.