i draw inspiration from a poet who steals
like all poets
when the sun catches discarded bottle caps beneath the sand’s shells and shards
who claim possession
when the gas in an open glass catches the sun, they trap it
evanescence, they claim, heaven
i draw inspiration from a poet who cries
like all poets
about the simultaneous beauty and pain of smudged ink
and how the ocean they love doesn’t love them back
and how the world was built by dreamers
but is made for those who don’t
i draw inspiration from a poet who lies
like all poets
who say they have original ideas
who say they enjoy the craft
who say they know the words
before they feel them on the paper
i draw inspiration from a poet who loves
like all poets
big things like evergrowing oak trees, purple sunsets, and love
small things like the sounds of hollow creatures, a matchbox’s features, and rhyme (and love)
and all the average things that are forgotten underneath the beds of tall children
like the bear, once above the dollhouse but now he lives in it too
like the diary with three entries
and love— a thing of so many words for which there are none
none big enough
none small enough
none average enough in size