we do not know how many calabashes
of fermented incantations the gods
must drink to get drunk, but we know
that wisdom is not something the gods
give in exchange for kola nuts!
sometimes he melts it into verses &
allows it to drip in lines from a poem.
but a poet’s mind is a muddy stream.
himself cannot tell you when to
come scoop a drink of clean water,
for his lingering darkness is a (night)mare
which he rides & gallops till dawn.
& even on nights, when he sleeps with
stars under his eyelids, he awakes
with tiny pieces of broken dreams
in the corners of his mouth.
so when you see him at a park,
having a conversation with a statue,
& laughing real hard; when you see
him sip from a glass of solitude &
dance romantically with his shadow,
understand that a poet is a wild man,
& we cannot tame him
for no one suckles the nip
of curiosity and remains sane.