all the best poetry will be anonymous
the lower ego will have all
been finally driven out of it
so it can stand by itself again
as the chatty accomplice
of the starry worlds and nature
as soon as the rain’s been gulped
all the way into the placid ground
then more rain comes forcing
the snails to run up the walls all night
but by morning only a blind poet
can read the cosmic script they leave
a rambling rejection letter I believe
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