If Gusts of Wind Bring Fire Then Tell Them

I don’t want to make poems
That seem like they know more
Than things of names could know,

But who am I to tell
These lines what they might say?
It’s just that I have read

Wise poems and more wise poems
Whose small lives in their drapes
Were short and bleak and sad.

I am a small life here
In these lines or in back
Of them. Psst. We’re not wise.