sometimes
sometimes my poetry is boiling like mud
spatulating flatulating bubbling
releasing puffs of sulpherated nonsense
to no great height or beauty
and
other times it is like a geyser
hot glass calm and clear blue
of inestimable depth then
whoosh
a rainbow as high as the sky is
reduced on mountains in a stream
of words so cold they could cut you
in between
in between i wait and wait
to discover who’s pulse
the effluvia dances to
who is there where when
whoosh
we sometimes catch a glimpse
whoosh
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