Cherry-picked exactness and I’m trying to tell you exactly what I mean. Will you listen? Because some days I hear beautiful things that I don’t like, and wonder why they are even here. I used to read all the time. Never writing, because outside my backdoor was bigger, the yard wonderful (in laburnum and silt puddles that ate refinement like red wellingtons). Then I got older in a strange way, and more about myself. So that when I went to read your poetry, I realized there were two authors. I read more than what was on the page. Your poetry was the most exact thing I could find. I needed to be reassured. You meant exactly what you said. Condensed and necessary. How handholders speak when they need to wear gloves. I don’t want to get frostbite. I write poetry, not riddles.
This poem is about:
Poetry Terms Demonstrated:
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