The poet

The poet has a tongue

which seduces words,

intoning passion into decay,

raising troubadours

from the death of phrases.

There is butter on his cracked lips

and prophesy in his yesterday,

hindsight in his tomorrow.

The healing finger of his breath

fascinates, manipulates,

moving pictures unframed

by determined boundaries.

Singing with the howls of dogs

and undead tears

the poet listens

for the call

of syllables.