Say what you like “the cave’s” hagiographies make a thin volume. In our time few poets sacrifice tourism for this antre—just look at their “Facebook” postings—trips to Europe, or the Exotic Outer Limits, and always they’re eating brioche.
Here’s to the cave of making
where the lonely write their poems,
where kings and queens have foundered
and no one has a phone.
I went there as a child,
a blind little kid
and drew pictures in a scrap book
just as Jesus did.
The walls of the cave are narrow
they’re neither light nor dark,
you may write whatever you wish
with a tiny dot of chalk.
The cave has nothing festive
no promises or lovers;
On its floor are the seeds of memory
and match book covers.
A dog may come sometimes
they’re always themselves—
unworried about the stigma
of pages, books, and shelves.
No one else will visit
so plant an abiding staff
where the light is inconsistent
and your heart is sharp as a gaff.
Planet of the Blind 