I would become poem and not poet:
Not flattening sublimity to page,
poor pinned abstract concentrate of beauty
flensed from visceral life, inchoate.
A poet must from living disengage,
stalk epiphany yet never know it,
in word and self alone may build his home,
acclaim his value's solitary gauge.
Only song bestows meaning 'pon flute, the
player knows who performs his sacred praise.
I would divest this calculating self
for it compares not to how you root me;
you are my living flesh my breath my bone,
grown entwined, my love, will we be poem.
~c. 2000