Sunday, January 26, 2020


Although nowhere near being
A universal
Bodily function,

Poetry functions as one.
It’s surprisingly like sex—
A desire, a compulsion,

An embarrassment—
An excitement, a wonder,
A shame, a trauma—

A distant and glittering
Constellation forecasting
Immediate disaster.

Then, after that disaster,
There it is again,
A tiny bud disturbing

Burnt ground, once more a desire
And compulsion, the wonder.

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