Poetry is for the fainthearted
The feeble and insecure
Who find shelter in words:
.
We are the crippled and infirm
Our hurt coalescing into alphabetical figures
Broken lines on the page
.
Vast white spaces
Like the snowstorm that blinds us
And hides the throbbing heat
.
Of passions with cooled hands
Cold-trembling skin
And icy hearts.
.
Your enduring love
And certain fidelities
Are not the stuff of poetry
.
Which can only speak
What is otherwise unspeakable
Too deep to retrieve
.
Too profound to understand
Except in the halting speech
Of poets, for found love is mute.