Spelunking

A poet hangs
from a thread, knotted
at one end to a tree, or desk,
and word by word
he unwinds himself
and steps into his depths
with a passionate scribble.

As he descends, he’s blinded
with the white enormity;
and the torch glows
against his walls:
monstrous mounted horns,
painted flames, a
trophy, illuminated.

And just after a sentence
he fumbles his pen and
opens his pack, trying desperately
to fit it all in.

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