If I were a sentence,

I would speak to one person surely

And I would sing.


If I were a story,

I would talk of throbbing black

and burning grey and say

that, out of all the house,

some corners are… sweetest.


And if I were a writer,

I would write pages and pages

and never title a thing.

I would revise so much

one day I'd rewrite myself;

an ocean, maybe- clean, steady.


But if I could only ever be a poet,

I would simply lift my hand

And shatter the world.