Wednesday, June 27, 2018


Any poem lives by the phrase
And dies by the lack of strange.
The gift must be, however
Sweet, fragile and incomplete.

Sliding support for rhyme, son
Of rage, saluting the stones
Until whole centuries droned

Fog from the eyes of monsters,
Meant some poets tried new tricks,
Went fishing for dragonflies,
Carried the darkness

Into the forest and /
Sliced it out. But still,
At worst, more milk, all the way.

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