poetry called back
said see I knew
you couldn't stop
even for a few days
but the real question is
are you a poet
or a phony holy

do words tumble
off the edge of your lamp
then roll around the page
like dots of mercury
that morph into
poignant crystals
when they touch just so

and do you walk
around the town
with bare feet
in a blatant shirt
asking spontaneous questions
of eye-averted strangers

well you better
live on the edge
because writing poems
means you break
the thermometer
of your soul
and your blood spills
into a million rivulets
you can never
confine
no resevoirs anymore
nothing you can
ever put back
the way it was