Disoriented,
You thought of the poem
You’d dozed composing.
Turns out, you hadn’t
Started the phrases
At all, not even
The ones in your head
It felt like you had thought
But hadn’t yet said.
That would be something
To compose—phrases
You’d felt you’d gathered
That were smoke shadows,
That hadn’t yet formed—
Is it possible
To think honest lines
That don’t exist yet
Before giving them
Words, syntax, rhythm?
Not a visual,
Not squiggles, but lines
Of language before
Language for them formed,
Verse pre existence.
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