Nothing happen that’s
Exactly where I want to be
If it just lies there on the page
Like a nude painting having
A now-forbidden cigarette
Waiting for the artist-hero to arrive
That’s just one version
The world has of me
But if poetry is a longing
To become the world
In some singular way
Using words like
Children jump on beds
Reckless and joyful
Then yes I would say
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