I met a fellow poet, several times,
he had half his head shaved and wore
ugly short sleeve button ups ironically and
considered some things too mainstream to speak of.
The problem with poets is,
we’re nearsighted,
we race across the rushing ground, losing ourselves in
the caress of the wind
oblivious
to the brick wall twenty feet ahead.
I have long been made of secret things
of tattoos covered by clothing and
piercings tucked behind hair and
rings worn band out.
Hidden disasters, hidden rebellions.
And he looked at me like he’d never seen me before,
nervous and shy and unsure of my being, believing in
a purity of self I no longer possessed.
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