I want a poem
to begin in turbulence
with milky quartz full of electricity
looking inert hushed
but broadcasting secrets
into the universe of rhyme
I want a genre
a place a locker
to hang my coat away from
the satin lining sagging
a surrender of the heart
to the label embroidered “small”
I want infinite lines
stanzas like stars
spread over a page where people
oohing and aahing exhaling
and gliding madly
whispering together in verse
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