Resident Poet

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Image: A crumpled book atop a bin in a grassy field. By Bora Rex.
  • Is this the verse 
  • that unfolds me? Must I 
  • listen to its secrets; must I
  • let it watch me? 
  • Is this the verse that is overworked,
  • the one that is read and 
  • read over
  • and left blistered
  • like the foot that no shoe will fit
  • painlessly? 
  • Is this the verse in which
  • I reveal too much, inadvertently? 
  • Is this the verse 
  • in which I recognise myself?
  • And then recognise myself 
  • shaping up
  • my recognised self? 
  • Is this the verse 
  • in whose shape I find 
  • an unfamiliar memory? Are its 
  • edges a liability? Are they
  • those that cut my fingers 
  • as I hold them
  • to the light, or do they 
  • dissolve into the body, consecrated? 
  • Is this the line that will 
  • kiss my bleeding hands?
  • Is this the verse that I cannot write,
  • restlessly reappearing in 
  • anything but words,
  • cold from my neglect?

Is this the verse in which I break a promise?

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