a poet is
the kind of person
who assumes too much,
far too much of what you know
and, at your anger,
he writes all the things,
all the things he would had said to you,
when you weren’t listening enough,
waiting for what’s there always—

so, but, now, that you know,

now, that we’re both on these same pages—
was it the sun threw the earth into orbit,
or have the planets made their dive;
will the skies be who cries;
the winds who scream, or,
is the green, green grass
greener because of us,
and your bare skin
made more flush

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