Can
anyone imagine a life too full for poetry?
Maybe
a life so busy with numbers—which
In
absolute terms we know numbers are pure
Poetry
if we think about it—or maybe a life
Of
action a lived-predicate the absolute verb
Perhaps
that’s a life too full to find poetry
I
think I lived that life when I was thirteen
And
masturbated constantly perpetually
At
least once an hour sometimes I jerked off
Twice
an hour in those heady days of youth
In
truth I had no time for poetry I lived poetry
Can
anyone imagine a post-adolescent life
Too
full for poetry? Don’t we want to ask
Wordless
demigods what numberless canticles?
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