They say

They say a poem should
Spit like fat on a red-hot pan
Etna’s secrets outpoured

They say a poet
Sinks into hell and
Flies with the angels

Is as weighed down
With endless joy
As with sorrow, they say

But they mistake fire
For a hand on the latch
Opening the heart

Unseen moments
When all you can say
Is, ‘The door’s open’