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Sunday, November 11, 2012

A Curiosity II

What happens when a poem
enters your head when you're ill?
Does it come warily,
asking how you are today?
Does it stand, hesitating,
in the doorway, hat in hand,
waiting to be invited in?
(And do you say wait, or come in?)
Does it swell in your brain
until you get a fever,
or shrivel on the spot?
Does it chill and shudder,
already tired at the thought
of the work that is to come,
sowing, tending, weeding, reaping
until you both lie down, spent
and flat, together?
What happens to a poem
that comes to you when you're ill?

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