My inner poet is a perspective.
Her knife is at the throat of reality.
The hairs on her neck always stick up
because of the imaginative shivers she sends down her spine.
She has a purse. It carries the concept
of infinity and the absence of light.
She ventures through fiction and truth
to find carefully articulated words.
She wears the past as a gown.
She makes it work.
Her hand is always in mine.
