poetry they say it is
written in an idiom
they say is poetry;
but me, i don’t call it.
i don’t ask what they call it.
i write and it calls itself
- nothing.
it is not even an anagram for teapot
pouring the steeped and the stirred
the dark or the golden.
i drink it with a cake stand;
outside the hail sheets down
and the leaves swirl autumn,
and the blanket draws closer,
for the blotting is done.
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