someone tell me what poetry is good for
is it to tell of picnics with
a poke-a-dot
lie spread upon a knoll
green are they that ponder
such, for poetry lies somewhere else
perhaps a thought left at a bus stop
rail car or bridge ATlas
whatever it held
it does not stand here
poetry - the last clasp
of the stem of the glass
before nightfall
its truth being
tomorrow is again
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