Fervor

With a crack-faced boy one morning I discovered poetry. In pale street-light and phone-light dawning electric white, I brought it up from whispers, wrought words from lessons and clouds and clock-faces, wasted time and study with hushed confessions In rooms with no light. No better friend to tell the stories with my lamp. Bus stops crackle golden orange by ink - another shade to stamp, I forge an army of letters marching on ghosts and good teachers who ricocheted from pages read - To Pablo, Arthur and Helen, you taught me to be rude with thought.