I understand.

You want poetry, the traditional kind,

hot blooded and full-bodied, rich and ripe for the drinking.

But the man who sits on your bench in the garden

stripping wire for the broken lanterns on the warm august afternoon.

He’s poetry.

And the way he looks at you, his eyes creased, open, longing, the knife

in his rough hands, searching your face for some kind of answer.

This is poetry, too…









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