poetry book


Your tetrastich hits up the top of your page,
And lonely it sits on its white and crisp stage,
Too precious to muck in, too scared to engage,
Your verse gives no truck for a cut in its wage.
Those unsullied acres were begging to share,
An ocean of paper that’s nothing but spare.
Have you, as its poet, no other to air ?
Then come on and show it !  Let’s put it in there !

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