a word is a curious thing
like a lance it stings and opens up
the old wound
like an angel it thrust open the door
of the tomb
like a Christ it cries
lazarus come out
and languorous i drifted about
into despair until you placed
pen in my hand
and in a rose white light
came your command: write
and everything is still wrong
that ever was
and whoever starved before i typed,
he still is starving
i can't say any poem saved the world,
or you or you but view the task
of art as, maybe, learning to feed
and fend for yourself