the poem does not come
voluntarily
does not whisper softly in my ear
does not flow gently
like a woman’s hair
over my chest and shoulders
does not breathe a scent
into eager nostrils
but sits
inside a closed stone
resisting the crowbar
that pries
and twists
and turns
finding a crack
deepening it
widening it
til the stone splits
and the crystals inside
catch the sunset
and blaze into twilight
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