The Runaway Poets

When I carve myself more hollow,

when I can tread water like I belong,

I would like to start over on a lake that sits

prim in the arms of two wise mountains.

Most days I would rather it stay morning;

it’s how I starve myself more hollow,

keep summer gossamer strung through my limbs,

but I would like to start over. On a lake,

I backstroke to let my sad lungs dry,

because most days I would rather stay mourning,

let my sad, sad, sadness seep into the lake,

keep summer gossamer strung through my lips.

Faraway, a poor sick body calls out, afraid.

I come back only to stroke his lungs dry,

eat the water the same way I eat my body,

teach his sad sadness how to seep into my lake.

In the middle of the lake there is an islet

faraway where a poor sick boy calls out for aid.

This valley is where poets went to die,

eating the water the same way I eat my body.

I tread water, now that I belong

in the middle of the lake on the islet,

prim in the arms of two wise mountains.

This is the valley where I will come to die.