Help Me Rude the Imperfections
Help me rude the imperfections thrown my way.
Torrential past — the mortars I duck.
Let me invent my downward spire, trench the worm.
Who, in the name of telling, leaves their tower tallest?
Fire born, of distant breath, wrecks
distant come. Taut,
the devil’s gun, run aground
by stun.
Do you know actual poetry things
they ask, no I say.
Trapped in stanzas, wearing feet
for meters.
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