despite that the body of a poet is shaped like a question mark        

every poet has the answer to one question
            as if she were born with the words
                        already engraved into her forearms
                        crafted by an ineffable power
                                    – whether divinity or demon
                                    she does not know or particularly mind –

"why do you write?"

i guess
            my indecipherable forearms and
            the way that my fingers
                        then curl to match the curve of my spine
make me
            not a poet

just a fugitive
            running because it is the only thing i know how to do
            and because i wont survive the night if i dont
            
and yet
the further i go
and the more ive seen

the clearer it seems to me
            that everyone who writes
            is just running