I put the Pocket Book of Verse in the bathroom
where I can hear those voices that came before
shape the warm moist air, rebound around the tiled
walls, my aloneness with them guaranteed.
Now, like brushing teeth and showering and shitting
poetry is with me every morning its marbled tongues
currying the worn edges of my fears to smoothness
loosening my jaw, rounding out my breath
before I go to meet the next new day born of this old stone.
- Jane Flint