No, it’s not a luxury you said, of your art.
Dear poet, show me, please
––some lesson in survival.
In lieu of an answer, you took position on the line.
There’s safety within the perimeter, they say.
Do you know this? Perhaps, and still reject it.
Or perhaps not, because for you that inside
is no such thing. Your silence won’t protect
you, you whisper––then sing, to signify the
alchemy by which you transform its impulse
into language, the language into music, into
a body’s dance along the wire.