Poetry Is A Crime Scene

Someone said fiction is a house and poetry is a person on fire running through a house.

I say poetry is the traces of a crime scene. You come upon it, and you wonder, “What happened here?”

You study the signs, and then, epiphany: Holy Christ, someone ran through here on fire.

It doesn’t matter whom. It doesn’t matter where: it matters that you put it together and it hit you like a gut-punch — somebody (maybe me) ran through this house on fire.

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