A poet’s milk & bread is invisible
A writer’s images are never finished

We gaze without worldly rewards
Like a monk, our meditation is the pen

Where knowing is no different from dreaming
With friends, like final dialogues

Or the conjunction of stars nobody cares about
Distances between our names, and the thing

Are abolished, we require strong philosophies
To continue, without realistic fantasies

Strong solar songs that aren’t diminished
By lovers leaving us, or the rent being late

When history sleeps, we remember
Here with creative love, a few things suffice

Hermits to a thorny corrupt planet
We make do with anemic hope buried

Beneath manuscripts of our feverish alchemy
The relations which govern hymn and speech

We unearth with curved-word and sacred vows
To ourselves, to all our conscience-mirror that liquifies

The spirit process of our melting
Until we taste the very Resurrection
Of ourselves silent, in what…