at times i write them
want to hold them tight
not turn grey mice poems loose
out of the sock drawer
snap go now puppies on the run
out on their own
beyond my control
out of reach, out of sight
crossing the street
against the light
a lone drifter may find them
some blue dark still night
perhaps, and take comfort
then i guess it’s alright
the preceding has been noble, thus,
considering the source, largely untrue
so there goes nobility shit out the window
chasing my poems
what is left pass around
to you and you and you
it’s okay, Descartes wrote:
i think therefore i am
okay, i think i can
go along with that.
an some sonofapup drifter is liable
to catch my poems
cook them, debone 'em
or eat 'em alive
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