of love. They write
poems of war, of beautiful
woman you’ve not seen
before.

They write poems
of mountains, lakes
and streams, of birds
and books and trees.

They write poems
of death and life –
poems to put you to sleep
and keep you up at night.

They write poems
at their desk,
in the blackness of
their closet, on their hands
or a napkin. Something happens –

and so they write