My mind
needs
a leash,
maybe
a muzzle
since
it
crashes
through
the shriek
of my
electric
fenced
brain
and always,
always,
always, always
always
ends up
in
someone
else’s
yard.
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Charles Simic wished he could find a needle swift enough to sew poems into blankets. I'm helping him look - and in the meantime, I'm collecting pieces of warmth.
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