But there, at work, is an actual poet
Found on the pencil smears under the eaves,
For the plans are not the dwelling, as yet,
However much they accumulate leaves.
She gathers the strays from a world built of words
To find they have voices, stories to unpack
To whoever will listen, and the birds
That come out of her pathos only lack
A mind to perceive them, the gift for her
To carry. It can't be shared; so in softer,
More desperate keys, she turns them into beasts
To be slayed by the Gods of the brook's egress,
Falsified, but true music nonetheless,
Fruit of a voice that sings, but cannot speak.
