Poem

We understand the moths beating against the windows,
throwing their minuscule bodies against barriers
both invisible and impenetrable.

It’s a special curse, devilishly clever,
to be a witness to the feast, but not a guest,
standing at a window, long shadows behind  us.

This poem is for us, the unpublished poets,
stuffing poems in our back pockets, publishing blogs
which float on the Internet like lonely asteroids.

Don t be discouraged.  Our scientists and priests
tell us nothing is lost once created. Our ideas,
and words, and images will join the universe.

So know, you quiet poets, those who write on bills
and receipts, on post-it’s and hotel stationary,
your work is not in vain. You will not go unheard.

The stars and space will absorb you, add you,
as salt alters meat, so shall you change galaxies.
Words unread still have power.  You can change nebulas.

So write on, you napkin scribblers, you secret poets,
you write for a higher audience, maybe angels,
whose wings dry your ink even as you write.