Gregory Spis, Poland


four a. m.

I'm a poet
who doesn't write
any poems
who doesn't build the nests
for birds
out of warm words
who doesn't interweave their wings
with the morning light
anyway it's winter now
the poets have flown away
to the temperate zone
to their women
to their pubs
to their lovers
and birds
they have remained
shivering with cold
like words
awaiting
for the spring