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And his poems have other poems

And his poems have other poems
Hidden, camouflaged inside them, as through the holocaust
Men hid within other men’s homes, and workplaces,
And women within other women’s closets, and dressing rooms
As a woman would hide her babe
First within her womb, and then inside her very heart
So his heart-poems reside and procreate in darkness, in hiding,
Spin their souls together to weave the spiders tale, and into
The famished strings of singing wormholes, which orbit
The always living, and the once-quickened dead;
From whence one day the spirit shall stride out; spin out
At his soft call, to take the percolating universe
By latent storm of surprise, and do a souls-token worth of battle
Only in silken strings of love’s long-suffering silence.