a poet is

the kind of person 

who assumes too much,

far too much of what you know

and, at your anger,

he writes all the things!

all the things he would had said to you,

when you weren’t listening enough,

waiting for what’s there always—
so, now that you know,
that we’re both on the same pages—

was it the sun threw the earth into orbit,

or have the planets made their dive;

will the skies be who cries;

the winds who scream, or

is the green, green grass 

greener because of us,

and your bare skin 

made more flush


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