Trapped in an unrelenting
avalanche of words,
conjuring the vision
that has made him blind,
the poet speaks volumes
without moving his lips.
An act of procreation
without touching,
but somehow you've been
touched just the same--
Aware, as you muse through
your morning walk,
and later,
rappel down the mountain of
papers on your desk,
that the words have seeped
into your being...
the seminal fluid
implanting its seed of truth.
