Is It Poetry
Jealous, I am.
Of before me, of all the men that came.
Men way to many.
Speaking only in English.
The places that you, have have I, been.
In between in and out.
The marks they leave, is it sin?
That fall down from the the sky.
Even the moist leaves, that hang down.
The cloud tops are there,
Where they are.
Right their, where you, where they are.
Coming home, in past noon.
Here in the middle of the night.
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