Prose Poem by Lynsey Jenkins
Prose
Stupid bird, the air you tire,
waiting to be called poetry,
though one could snatch you up as easily
& call themselves not god or poet, but Gun
& wordlessness desire in your dying.
Thursday, May 1, 2014
Topic(s) of this poem: writing
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4/29/2024 9:02:30 AM # 1.0.0.1119
