Having only known poetry
as “writer of” for a few lit-up months,
it occurred to me this morning
while on the train predicting grief,
the possibility that some kind soul
is arming me, has armed me,
with a means not of protection
exactly, but of permeability, so that
I may leak my way home—
not in iambic anything,
but in schema more discordant:
whatever, however.
And yet, who’s to say sadness
won’t take on a certain shape—
dropped porcelain heirloom
cracked perfectly down the center seam—
organizing itself into
small, metered feet.
--me
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