Sunday, February 02, 2020
Poetry needs no defense.
It is as a snake is in the grass,
as a thunderstorm comes at us from the west,
as a knife glistens in moonlight.
It is the blood on the knife.
The silence of the owl, even as it strikes.
The stillness after love, as we fall back to our own bodies.
Poetry is that which can say itself
whether you choose to listen or not.