And his poems have other poems

Hidden, camouflaged inside them, as through the holocaust

Men hid within other men's homes, and workplaces,

And women within other women's closets, and dressing rooms

As a woman would hide her babe

First within her womb, and then inside her very heart

So his heart-poems reside and procreate in darkness, in hiding,

Spin their souls together to weave the spiders tale, and into 

The famished strings of singing wormholes, which orbit

The always living, and the once-quickened dead;

From whence one day the spirit shall stride out; spin out

At his soft call, to take the percolating universe

By latent storm of surprise, and do a souls-token worth of battle  

Only in silken strings of love's long-suffering silence