The True Nature of Poetry

Control, she says, and slides between my thoughts
Which bore no fruit, no word, no inky stain
To call a line, a verse for half a day
While I slipped in and out of reverie
Control, she says again and slides into
My lap, my papers scattered to the floor
My pen held loosely in my lazy hand
Her hand already pushing it aside
Control, she whispers now through “fuck me” lips
And slides her blouse without a metaphor
Above her breasts–I kiss her naked skin
I see a poem, but I hear her say–
You try too hard to write sometimes, my love
Tonight I think you should just let it go

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