there are no closet poets

If poetry is the bread, what is the butter?
It gets succinct after that, that first reading
and you're left with an unconscious reflex.
(You want, you ache begrudgingly but never trivially.)
She feeds you lines as if she were your slave
but she's a headhunter eating your
brains for breakfast and your soul for dinner.
He's the master of disguise and you are devoted
with purpose--to love his real face.

Butter. I think I was wondering about butter on
a poem. A poet is a stalker and will follow you
with their own religion. You become strangely
addicted. You have found yourself walking near
a forest, immersed in its pine-needle breath.
Beyond the tree-line is a field alive with the hot
buttered sun. You see a placid lake where the
yellow lotus blossom grows and you wonder
how you got here, but you don't really care,
do you?