One comes from the cold field of poetry
Knowing
nothing but the peculiar dialect
Of the crow—one's voice tangled in those
Lines
of chiaroscuro thought—one speaks
The
arbitrary rhetoric of Apollinaire even
The
simplest sounds that fall from one's lips
Rise into
new and unforeseen statements
Still one says everything remains to be said
One says I for one should like to say that I
Have no ideas on that score but a poem
Is
not a great wall holding back the angry
Horde
of candy canes O a poem’s just
A wee thing one says the best is when
The poem stops and silence listens
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