There are two kinds of poets.
One moves through the world collecting words
like a woman placing gems into a reed basket.
Words that burn and cool
words that soar and sink
that lift the spirit or strangle the breath.
Words come from everywhere:
the rails of train stations in rural India
a coil of sunlight through wine held to a lover’s lips
the clean wound left in that lover’s absence.
She molds these words like clay
and places the gems carefully, to catch…