where you find poets
under a dusty shelf
between cracked pages
and under ancient stone stars
is where you’ll find poets.
we are not in
the place to be
we don’t wear versace —
we bleed from our hands.
pouring out visions
into thirsty mouths
and servicing hungry
word whores
is where you’ll find poets.
the exclusive soirees
eating canapés
you’ll not find us there.
we are below,
sinking in the silent, black street
as we bleed from our pens.
chiseling truth
in soap stone
with one eye on dirt
and the other on god
is where you’ll find poets.
we are trampled
on wall street, market street
and commerce place,
rubble under shoes of gold.
we bleed from our feet.
in back bedrooms
with fire escapes,
in plagued houses
with spider-webbed drapes,
in every trailing symphonic chord,
in all the world’s communal hoards
in the hurricane eyes and sheltering lees
the whisper of words through autumn trees
in tears of gratitude
mercy and latitude,
the holy place where we come to breed,
the holy cunt
the male seed
that is where you’ll find poets.
and we bleed from the heart —
but unlike the harpooned masses,
we ask you not
to stanch
the flow.
— j.a. carter-winward
