i am not a poet.

i do not take thoughts,

spin them on the page,

and give them breath

the way a little man

spins gold from straw.

 

i am not a dreamer.

i do not ponder the stars,

wonder if they cry

or smile or laugh

or if the sheep dreams

of androids and muzzles.

 

i am not romantic,

with ideals of flowers—

carnations, forget-me-nots,

daisies—or letters of blood

with the alphabet

blazing a hole in the heart.

 

i am a person;

just that.

just that.