(Cont.d)I’m not a poet
if poetry means
the crescent that looms
to pale lovers’ glances ─
no, give me hooked blades
glinting in whites of eyes
of oxen on the block.
I’m not a poet ─
but if poetry’s
sinking hands to touch
hearts in agony
and ex-press their grief
and despair ─ then
if it’s poetry to
undo their nooses
make the blind see
make the deaf hear
break chains, bonds, knots
(wait, I’m about to burst)...