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Love Poetry

I love a poem, not poetry.

The last glint of humility
among the bank-lines of humanity.

I borrow your eyes from time to time
and from time to time I can see myself

a small gold egg, cracking and then
healing as though the edges of my face

never existed, but instead faded.

I love a poem, not poetry

because behind your eyes is electric
danger, a socket of tissue and tide

that I might travel through, or stop
to bury a lightning bolt in the sand.

You don’t ask for the words back,
only your vision of the words, for which

I am happy to oblige, but I’d be lying
if I told you that I didn’t ruin the image

you held in your hands, to your heart.
But don’t feel guilty, you say,

it’s only a poem, not poetry.

Posted 09/11/10
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