I believe the poet’s hair has always
been a plume of smoke caught stiff in winter
air. Their voice has always spoken over
water, carried through the fog to reach me
in the morning. I believe that they have
always worn their collar button loose, and
always tapped their finger to their head when
opened to a spark of humbling wonder.
I believe a day will come when my hair
too will have always been white, my leg been
lame, my eyes weighed down by beauty, by these
light-box cryptograms of real things. My
heart has always been unburdened, unwounded by jealousy
for the clarity through which the poet always lives and sees.