Poetry is free,
I’ve seen its cell – door open
deep shadows and rumpled sheets
where it tossed and turned.

But now, darling, she is free
delicious fingers of grass
massaging her toes
in the perfect greasy burn of sun.

Later, when the moon seems like an icecube
hanging in the vodka of space,

Poetry runs naked along the rough sandy
Unsure how long freedom might last
she runs

the vodka burns in all the wounds
of her long incarceration,
but she does not scream.
She laughs.
She is free.

Free in the wild
of books and hearts

Free on the tongues
of rare lovers who dare to kiss
the fugitive
drunk on the cold and hot
the life and death
the almost and forever

Poetry is free,
darling, do not wait in her cell.