are never seen, but in the morning your glistening stains are there,
vulgar unencrypted glyphs in crimson and vermilion, bleeding adjectives
in trickling rivulets down crumbling brick.
Move invisibly; squeeze
poetry from stones, earth, flesh; out of trash cans, cardboard boxes,
abandoned basements, sewer grates; through night alleys with silent
spray cans, unlicensed stanzas, lockstep meter; publishing on boxcars,
buses, bridges, buildings.
In decrepit basement rooms, gather
daily to train, recite the alphabet backward and forward in seconds,
write in complete darkness, memorize dictionaries.
When necessary, you ration
a single poem so that it lasts for weeks, having disciplined yourself
to read only a word at a time. Know palindromes, equations, recipes.
You are even capable, some
fear, of unlocking encrypted text; freely pirating newspapers, textbooks,
How will they break