Poetry
After all, what is poetry
except the care we take
with the few words we have
to say something
infinite
with the crude sticks
and stones
we manage to collect,
To sing the pleasure of rain
or keen the anger of sudden loss,
to connect
to that place just beyond us,
chanting verses, incantations
as we feel our hollow bodies
rock in low notes, long words,
and sway with our reaching,
the prayer
we say to make this life
as heavy as it ought to be.
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