Tempestuous Acres
I've written two poems
on this blogger document tonight.
I liked both of them enough
to save them, not publish
immediately. It's vain,
thinking you've been
struck by lighting
twice.
Once born here,
a poem can't compete,
the words on this blog
are mostly born into
retirement. Why should
I be forced to deprive
my few readers (arguably
the most worthy)
the best ideas I have?
Vanity.
All is vanity,
ripples and a fear
of the kitchen.
I want to yawn
on the back of dust jackets:
don't take me for a humble
mystic pedaling Babel beans.
But these poems here,
they are the sweat of wishes
-herculean cherubs-
sperm birthed into a sock.
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