Your words burn,
and you reach for space in the air.
You speak for truth and knowing,
or a version of truth,
and a version of knowing,
striking a chord at Poets Corner,
reading to two old guys in ambiguous raincoats,
or reading to the front row of an empty theatre
prefacing a minor political play.
Still your words burn,
and, at Poet’s Corner, they jump back at you,
bouncing off the stone and glass,
claiming space in the air.
The poets’ words burn and burn,
taking space in the air.