from the March archives

It was just a line to a poem,
but it was a closing line,
that appeared after the end,
a final line that didn’t quite fit
and didn’t have an antecedent.
Sprung up out of know where,
you know what I mean?
Just rose up from the page,
put her hands on her hips,
waved her right hand,
cocked her head to one side,
and said in one breath,
“I’m staying here,
I ain’t going no where.
And I don’t give a good goddamn
about your silly poetic conventions.
And furthermore, f—– the form!”
The word became flesh,
and dwelt among us.

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Author: Raymond Maxwell

https://raymmaxx.wordpress.com/ Librarian and archivist-in-training, retired foreign service officer and former naval officer.

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