Among fields and skies and parkways

I trace my dreams into dirt

onto walls

across my forehead.

I swallow pens

and chew paper

screaming at sunsets

petting lonely fires.

I squeeze my work until

it hardens to coal

seething for spark

lusting for ember.

Yet the clouds are heavy

with rain and thunder

so this wick is made wet

to hide from the flames.

But how fortunate,

among all this chaos

and turbulence

and fury

I was baptized:

by 100 famous poets,

moving my hair

kissing my forehead

by 100,000 nameless writers

straightening my tie

dusting off my shoulders.

Only for them.

JUST for them.

I will go on with this.