From a glassless window atop
A garnet tower, the eyes peer
Down at me. Below these opaque
Stones, lips curl, like scimitar blades,
Into leering smirks. These are faces
Of cosmic philosophers,
Crack alchemists, sightless
Astrologists and arthritic yogis.
None have achieved nirvana–
That elusive swirl of perfection–
Yet they point down at me, laughing,
As I sit with my back against
Their garnet tower, popping fire-
Roasted crickets into my mouth.
A. J. Hayes
Give a poet a pen