I wonder. . .

Am I a poet?

Or merely a stringer together,
as glass beads on a wire,
of all too gaudy words?

Though the metaphor is none too sure

it occurs to me that airplanes
and bats (on leathery wings!)
fly but are not birds.

Hah!

I have cast my baubles before she who sings,
I have struck pen over the flint of paper,
played with fire.

Word against word spitting sparks,
sentences glowing like tapers
in the dark
in the dark
in
the
dark. . .