Duane Vorhees writes

THE POET

Come. Find me in some brick and vinyl inn
when your soul is frozen in hard winter,
lost in vast fastnesses of dark hinterland.
I’m the one with dirk and violin.

Look for me when you need swans or lions
to lead you through strange varied habitats of being –
saved relieved smitten bereft –
with pygmy verse uttered by a giant.