I am a poet. I take the words and I turn them on their heads until the juice runs out. It is red and sweet, like strawberries. I sit cross-legged on lilypads, watching meaning watercolor itself onto the pond. I rust like clockwork in the rain.

It is a joyous day 

amidst a burdened world.

We cluster around stand mixers like crows

to telephone wire, make holy messes