Grace is a parasitic worm
That burrows out an old book
Slithers out infected wounds
Or fluke lunchtime conversations
Into the soiled safety of rooted synapses—
Pestering, squirming, writhing, waiting
A week, a month, a season, maybe a lifetime,
Until its self-proclaimed Spring arrives
To burst open the seed it found and bound itself to
That you never knew was there.
That’s it! That’s what it has been all along!

This, to me, is what it means to be Poet—
To water indiscriminate the alien urge feeding
On the composting refuse within—
To wrestle through the night for a name,
Pathologically powerless to let go until the blessing
Both sets you free and leaves you limping.
So much humanity consists in naming things
That God himself brought every animal to
Adam to see what he would call them.