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Poetry is not the domain of the elite. Poetry traps Strunk and White in a steel barrel and plunges them over a roaring waterfall. Poetry nose dives, screaming above the drone of history, razor close until you smell its carnivore breath and glimpse your own silhouette reflection in its cataract eyes. Poetry is not search engine optimized. No algorithm can hold it, no logic model predict the lumbering swing of its axe against the glacier of apathy it climbs. Poetry leaps the icy chasm in its path, its laugh echoing down the abyss. It chainsaws the zenith off and leaves a jagged terminal preposition. Poetry drops the fetters of meter and rhyme like Houdini shedding handcuffs. It is the wild beating heart of the trained bear that makes him point his unicycle toward the exit. We are not the masters of poetry. Poetry is making, forming, creating, genesis, the big bang, the sound of hammer on chisel. Poetry is air molecules filling a vacuum. Poetry is the fire that devours Rome. We are entrusted with that fire. We feed it the fuel of our lives.