I will write a poem

if it kills me.

Even if the line

breaks me.

Even if love

counts its ways.

Even when a

lesser path emerges.

Even if I lie

etherized on a table.

Even if roses are red,

with each petal a cliché.

Even if to be or not to be

isn’t the question.

Even if you tread

softly on my dreams.

Even if there’s water

everywhere but no drop.

Even if I wander,

lonely as a cloud.

Even if no word

rhymes or I

double over in

entendre,

this is a poem,

and I live on.