The Label

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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