Actually I am a poet
right now
in this scratching of pen,
a quiet house
warming itself against outside cold.
I thought I needed more,
some eyes to read these words
or ears to hear them
or plotting how to share.
But the mime
who performs in her home
instead of on the street
is still a mime,
the painter who murals
private walls,
the potter who mixes personal mud
for her own stoked kiln,
this intimate kundalini.