Recipe
for Poetry
Do
words
Fall
Out of the imagination
As
eggs drop
From the back end
Of a well-fed but nervous hen
Picked
and placed
Into the poet’s dozen
Scrambled, unscrambled
Until
they’re well fit?
Or
Are
words
The final product
Squeezed and forced
With
cramps and contractions
From the bodysoul
Out
of the life gutter
Splatter
Onto the clean white page?
Does
one
Bear down
Or dream
To
produce
The best words
Kidney
stone
Child
Shit
Or
Simply
Lace curtains
In the breeze?
The Poet -- Paul Cadmus
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