You cannot put a fire out;
A thing that can ignite
Can go, itself, without a fan
Upon the slowest night.
You cannot fold a flood
And put it in a drawer, —
Because the winds would find it out,
And tell your cedar floor.
The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad for life, mad for talking, mad for poetry.
You cannot put a fire out;
A thing that can ignite
Can go, itself, without a fan
Upon the slowest night.
You cannot fold a flood
And put it in a drawer, —
Because the winds would find it out,
And tell your cedar floor.