Portrait of the poet as the poem

An iambic pentameter of fourteen lines is a sonnet,

            or in other words an argument


that finds resolve, only when the volta comes

in lines eleven or thirteen or something like


never –

             if inked over by lines crossed out, as if to say

for once, my agency can slip from


fingernail to finger tip, and I –

poet or poem,

                        have painted too abstractly, or

in other words, too beautifully.



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