if we were we would not write poems
let alone entertain the notion that anyone cared
to listen
listen to these words
words
words
they are a clumsy sort of close-up magic
a trick deck that wants to let you in
on the secret, try on all of its suits
watch as i pull the past out of my hat by its ears
alive again and now in need of feeding
my words are thick with fur
gentle beasts born of a hunger
you will regret to mistake for hopelessness
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