I hear them bickering, voices
laid low above horizons for
mortals denying sun for more
permanent light, buying brightness

as if any of our choices
influence destiny; after
creation, fatalism crafts her
imperfect plan with permanence,

so that human knowledge workers
can mine for a better future
while finding out not for themselves
but for who else? higher powers,

what the secret of our success
is, since poets are odd, neither
flesh nor fire, but both creators
and destroyers, our more-from-less

ethos burned into us, chaos
spilled into broken moulds, slow-poured
like molasses taking a turn
for the worse as it drips, courses

through our veins like ink, and lingers
in mouths as on page, our fingers
triggering rage, consequences
of talent turning loud authors

into silent partners of this
business gods convince investors
is worth avoiding forever,
since self-expression challenges

divine intention; it never
can quite conform to the plan their
sticky hands honeycomb through us,
since poets create taste & desire.