Sunday, April 27, 2014

Poets talk about their poems as if they are children:

Unfolding with hot breath, wet, always growing,
Requiring as much care and maintenance as an infant,
Keeping their mothers up at night with insistent wails.

But poets are wrong when they talk this way, because
Poems are really new growth from old skin, another limb,

Sawed off and re-planted for the public to consume.   

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