Easy does it

It is too easy to be a poet

as you begin to flow

it dissolves into tears

across the page like warring

pencils have driven to feuding

the legacy of my mind’s eye.


I look and go wall-eyed

such is the education you

drive me to endure.


Cross-linked and dressed

like a cold September night

it does not refute the symbolic

leaning of my present tension

against the leaves of your periodical’s




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