Because she speaks the tabooed word, she tells the hidden truth. She looks, she sees.
Because her sustenance comes from something that cannot be sold, or withheld, or rationed.
Because, sometimes, when she meets a fence, her muse demands that she climb it.
Sometimes dangerous poems are hidden in drawers, but still -- they have been written.
The internal life is less easily ruled, restricted, than the external life. it cannot be marketed, and there is no profit beyond the spirit.
If everyone wrote poems -- if everyone read poems -- what would happen then? If we all were just a bit more connected to our internal selves, our animal selves, our spirited selves, our sensual selves -- would the made world unravel? Who would we be then?
Suppose we all heard god speak in tulips, in pollen, in the hidden languages of the body?
If we could reach our hand into the river and lift out the sequined fish, what then?