Sing in me, Muse, and through me tell the story
of poets in April, of twists and turns.
Driven to and fro by words and noise,
haunted, solid, cursed, concealed.
Many things they saw: unpeeled oracles,
flying seducers, flights of sparrows,
long months dressed in black or gold.
Thrumming weathers pulsed through their bones.
Even so they saved each other from disaster,
no gods or sirens seduced them.
their own wild recklessness kept them all–
children and fools, they ate the moon,
their muses leapt into their arms
and wept and laughed, and explained their lives.
Wrote this one in 2013.