A Poem to be the Poem that Was

winding itself down a dark alleyway

when dusk was most dusk and threatening

day with never returning.


A poem becoming the most subtle mother,

the sweetest and meanest keeper of bones,

and breaker of them.


A poem to be a hospital, in all it means

to recuperate the weary, to medicate a malady

out of a lime body, out of blue veins.


When this poem finally utters its name,

flames also utter theirs, a copper pot

boils over with froth, it steams,


a sputter shivers and draws a blank,

a blanket won’t do for cover.


When this poems says yes, a thousand

yeses dress themselves for a fête

and dance with no nos no matter

how well they play the coquet.


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