I think I could be a poem,
a free verse falling gracefully
down a white, white page
in an old book with fingerprint smudges
in the corners, and
labeled “discard” from
some small-town library–

I think I could be a poem,
a ramshackle tumble of words like
dishrags filled with gray dishwater
and bits of life leftover,
waiting to be wrung out on a
warm August evening when the
party has ended, and the guests
have all stumbled home–

I think I could be a poem,
waiting there in cool papery darkness
between pages, waiting
who knows how long for
your eyes to drink me in and
bring me back to life

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