The Reader
A poet
dresses the naked
word,
with emotions. Such as the air
in this empty room sops the hand
and satisfaction it gives. Still,
the pen he has used
flows again and the page cherishes
that in its roots—
and produces blooms on the bed
of spring. Ah, the spirits are splattering
on the tasteful styles, but the
mails on your phone
are comme il faut the summer sheets
of petering dust. A note from him
is among them, unread. I watch
at the poet. It is so vain not to peruse—
that I opt instead to read his soul.
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