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Poetry Is Sneaky

I drift away, like a fickle lover.

Poetry never stamps its foot,

or chases after me,

or texts me late at night

with outrageous demands.

No, poetry goes all quiet.

Then tosses me something—

In the used book section of

the temple of Barnes & Noble,

it slides a book into my hands and disappears.

And we’re off again—

I remember how it is:

A crate full of words,

the lines of a face

arranged just so

and it’s crazy love all over again.

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