Some poets are small
Children who want to
Eat everything they see
Swallowing their becoming
They long to put their hands
On their first touching
And love uncritically
Holding on tightly to a finger
Or a breast where they can rest
From all their wailing and staring
Totally at the mercy of the gods
Who tend and wipe their asses
And coddle them and dress
Them in their cutest clothes
And send them out to where who knows
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