Strike flint to enflame,
let the lines take flight,
They bite at the dark,
they shoulder the light;
No throne for the poem,
no chair for its nerve—
It walks till it bleeds,
for a poem’s a verb.
.
Sep 11, 2025
Sep 11, 2025 at 8:04 AM UTC
Strike flint to enflame,
let the lines take flight,
They bite at the dark,
they shoulder the light;
No throne for the poem,
no chair for its nerve—
It walks till it bleeds,
for a poem’s a verb.
.
