Poet

If I was not a poet

I would be

filtered sunlight

on Sunday mornings,

dawning on

hearts and their

tangled

mess

If I was not a poet

I would be

a chasm,

a catch

for moments

before death

If I was not a poet

I would be

the mountain

under mountains,

reckless

in my burgeon,

everywhere

unseen

If I was not a poet

I would be

blank,

a bare infinity

rewritten,

over

and over

again

and again