gentle beings,
and other nodes
of the jury
i refute the claim
that the poet is just
sitting in a sweater
and staring out of a window
and isn't really living life.
i submit, beings and nodes,
that in order to write a poem
the poet must be
frighteningly alive
alive enough to face beauty
to give permission to pain
daringly alive
courageous enough
to believe there is something
making
this now
matter
even if no one else thinks so
now maybe i don't live life
as well as i could, i don't claim
to have it all figured out
but beings and nodes
if i could live better
i would not wish
for the simple surrender
to action and execution
i would wish to be
a poet in every instant
miraculously aware enough
to notice everything
brimming with light enough
to share it all
with the beloved
that is everyone
...
and what do you have against
sweaters anyway?
i rest my case