Listen, the smoke


She says
you’re strange
and I can’t quite
put my finger on it
like fog, so I tell her
listen, the smoke
that a poet lives in
is transparent but real
a mystery you can’t touch
the wound is too deep
in the soul of the poet
to be excavated like a stone
and polished or broken
like a dark mirror
in the darkest room
on the darkest nights
alone, like the moon.

# woody

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