on poetry

there is poetry in the way a squirrel flies from branch to branch miles above the ground

and in the mistakes in every hand-painted everything

the collisions between the stars and velvet October sky 

the sliding of a door’s crude lock against it’s metal fixture, years gone by;

it’s up to me

—and maybe you, too—

to coax it out

and let it divide and combine into letters

that become words that become images

until it all starts over again

and one poet is writing poems about another’s poetry


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