We, as poets

we fear the tangible

our fingers have lost the ability to

touch, to

feel

from

nights spent clutching our pens

from

unclenching our fists

from

peeling our

fingertips away from the ones we cannot afford to lose.

From pressing the familiar lines of our

palms together while looking

up past the cracked ceiling

up past the cloud that Darius calls

God

We, as poets, do not believe in a

heaven, for

Purgatory

is so sweet