The Poet
The Poet
By Elizabeth Sheldon
Coiled like a leopard who has found her lost spots,
I gather my courage to enter the ring of fire.
The unseen world is ablaze but the somnambulists cannot see,
they are an army of hungry ghosts, twerking noisily.
Heraclitus was right; you cannot cross the same river twice,
nor can you go back to the bank left behind.
My scull’s bow forges forward towards the delta of an unnamed sea.
What awaits on the seemingly distant quay?
very laboratory