The Making of a Poem


out of the corner of my eye

a beckoning  of words


like strips of meat

in a butcher’s window

flesh and blood

syrupy sweet

to my hungry eyes

I couldn’t resist!

I stole them—

stuffed them

in my pockets

and underneath

my coat

I walked away

a swollen mass

of syllables dangling

like threads

city-eyes through shifty streets

walked i,

surprised to find

that the words did not stay:

they slipped away

slipped right out through the cracks and seems

like odor:

But one foul sound stayed—

seeped my skin

like sharp tattoo knife

and i became

a solitary stanza

with spondees for limbs


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