Festival poets after the show,
in narrow hotel rooms, the door
double-locked television tuned to
something ambiguous
Festival poets light a fuse, fireworks
on feast day, a hymn of words touches
hidden places, tongues explore the ways
to translate an entrance, an exit
Making love from loneliness,
festival poets churn furiously, until butter
melts in the mouth of gods, until birds
enter a room of remembering
Until loneliness grows hard,
until rhythm takes over
slipping in and out, up and down
Until crescendo
Finally something like a sudden rain
explodes in relief, a lingering
scent of shame,
stanzas spurting on the sheet
The festival poet
falls asleep
in the sweat of a first draft;
in silence and sticky fingers
