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.