The things I know poetry isn’t. The worms that eat my lips.

Fk fk fk fk fk

When I am making waste of my vision, seeing as how it’s tinsel and leaves, I blow through times I was nearer and dearer to posie and land plop on this rotten desk amongst the everybody-things. The things I know poetry isn’t. The worms that eat my lips. Sense of air in my mouth, having swallowed, forgone acceptance of other things in honor of you, Poem. You, twit. You bloated plank between my husband and I, stop faltering a second so I can say something. And then it’s raining so I feel ancient. Fk fk fk fk fk on the roof. Every new sound has a new place in here. Hear.

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