Don’t trust poets.
They’ll swear they’re only describing
a perfectly ordinary scene-
a field, a street, a quiet afternoon-
and you’ll believe them
right up until the moment
the ground starts whispering.

They’ll tell you the sky is blue
while nudging you in the ribs
as if to say,
but is it? really?

They’ll insist the strange thing you saw
wasn’t strange at all,
and the normal thing
was actually a revelation
you somehow missed.

They’ll rearrange the furniture
of your certainty,
swap the labels on your instincts,
and smile politely
while you try to remember
what you used to know.

Poets are dangerous like that.
They make you doubt
your own eyes,
not because they lie,
but because they keep reminding you
how easily someone else could.