I read a poem today
about a poem hiding from its poet.
the images have been swarming my head all day
and now I am convinced
that this is the case:
the loud steps in my mind
have caused the words to scatter back into the underbrush.
the poems, like hunted animals,
have fled into hiding
and I, the poacher,
stand in the clearing of an emptying mind
rifle in hand.
I enter like a thief into my own thoughts
to salvage the brittle truth
and the poems watch me from their hiding places
hearts st-stuttering in their chests,
wondering who next will have their head stuffed
and hung on the wall like a prize.