A true poet, in that moment, does not slam the door or shout; He sees brazenness puffing away as the fruits of another’s labor are trampled ...

A true poet, in that moment, does not slam the door or shout; He sees brazenness puffing away as the fruits of another’s labor are trampled underfoot. He hears the brush creak against the ground, the bow pressing into the sorrow, And thinks: "The nerve—barging into a living work as if it all just happens ...