A poets poem
Each poet writes between the lines.
On which they hope that someone dines.
They launch it into tender flight,
With phantom string that holds it tight.
Among the flowers of their poem,
Held by fears that will not comb.
Reveal their bleeding of the night,
To someone reading in the light.
They drain themselves upon this rack,
Of weighted sin upon their back.
And send their pleas of self deny
Into the air on a butterfly.
They hold their breath that one will read,
The vail of message that they seed.
Among the lovely of their tea.
And hear dear God, I read their plea.
So if you read a poets poem,
Comb full the words that they have sown.
[This message has been edited by Seymour Tabin (edited 11-22-1999).]