When my poems saw you date
your poems, they clustered up
fretfully trying to remember
their history. “We’ve never felt
so abandoned before! No dates
to tack on to, no chronology
to mark our growing.” I crossly
shot their discontent down.
“Excitable mongrels! Can you
swear to the day you were born
to? You revel in your polygenous
delivery, changing shape size
color often as may please. Shall
we lose that freedom to grow?”
1 comment:
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