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Made of all the structures in my life
anxious ego.

Stayed well beyond midnight in the attic
crawl space, daubing

boughs of his roof.

It may rain, you never know.
It may thunder.

Best to be careful.

But only the poor poet weeps, only the moralist
is outraged by the mortal.

"Through the blank wall of timeliness there breaks
and enters a figure to craft the world of forms."

True being, meanwhile, is not in shapes
but in the dreamer.

Copyright © 2008 Rachel Moritz All rights reserved
from Night-Sea
New Michigan Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission