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.+
