Poetry

Like trying to grasp
at the infinity of things;
where these words,
this language,
can so adequately
say without saying,
where the fingers
are always pulling
from the body,
so as to be so direct
yet so indirectly,
is to speak in hopes
one hears with
the interior of being
is no small feat,
but is this heart’s
constant rearranging –
to make poetry.

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2 thoughts on “Poetry

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