Eyes like sunbeams


It doesn't take but a trickle
of emotion
- a tickled nerve -
to riddle this sheet anew.

Which begs the quandary
if I'd long become apathy
- a blank page -
awaiting a gash.


I learned to bleed
long ago,
in a campus gazebo
with pen and paper
to see where we go,
how we escape.


And every tear was just
a refill
for the nearby lake
where eyes like sunbeams
would scan the water
for the sparkle of a mistake



And better the poet
for it, yes,
for the self-reflection,
the inflection of


Better the artist
for it, indeed,
for the willful incision
of flesh
so that I could
reach in
and rattle my bones
for a line.


Better the writer
for the introspection.
For trading the future
to master recollection
of the past.


Better the miser.



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