THE FIRST POET

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Perhaps the first poet was inclined

to describe a honeysuckle dream

Or the relief of slipping

through the teeth of a nightmare

Perhaps he heard the melancholia

in the melody of the wind

Or the harrowing squawk

of a carrion crow

Perhaps she caught the moon red-handed

stealing the midday sky from an unsuspecting sun

Or considered her naked reflection

distorted by the ripples of a wave

Perhaps he revealed his heart to a lover

etched her image into the walls of his mind

Spilt his blood into her lap

while she wasn’t looking

Perhaps she spotted the tip

of Orion’s ensanguined sword

And cursed it for being so easy to see

yet impossible to reach.