and so, why poetry
doesn't want to fit
in the crossed ankle mindstream
screaming hemline scare;
or the botanized categories
of lobed or ovate leaf,
or fuzzy or bared stem;
but fits in the sting
on the lip
of this glass,
and in this loud swing
across a crowded
dance-floor,
and this objection, like glue
is SERIOUSLY
imbibed,
wrought,
brought to saturation
is keyhole
is flexible
is a raspberry bush
about to fruit
?
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