Many of the poets lie
Which is to say
They know poems
Cannot
Save you
Swans
Won’t
Save you
Blue skies, etc.
Yet in taverns
Classrooms
At conferences
Poof!
They become
Paracelsus
Sellers
Of medicine
“My poem will heal you!”
They cry—“Angels brush
My cheek,” they whisper,
“I know how
To make shit
Into gold.”
At grand occasions
They always look past you
To see if someone else
Can be convinced
& when they’ve had much to drink
They bitterly complain
No one reads poetry.
Planet of the Blind 