Poetry wrote me.
Poetry took a pen and sketched out my soul, then my body--
proving that I am somebody.
Poetry lent me a brain and a heart,
a lucky, gratuitous, helpful head start.
Poetry taught me how to think and to feel--
what I felt and thought were things true and real.
Poetry bequeathed me a stomach and lungs:
digesting and breathing have never been so much fun.
Poetry showed me how to inhale life unseen--
and exhale stuff that is worth something.
The organs filled out, poetry gave me hair and nice skin.
He opened a hole in the lower back.
Introduced me to my house of straw and wax--
taught me how to live again.