Poem for a Poet

Were it not so sure
of itself,
the poem would be
like the poet –
wavering over a phonetic confluence,
muttering idly
over an image. Reluctantly
shouting the dark
down into submission;
calling to a hopeless array
of statue-like muses.

The poem is our consciousness
come alive,
reflections of the architect’s dream,
or the proud
when the heart leaps.