I am a tree.
I pump out my work like buds developing:
giving nuts, flowers, fruits away.
And everyone says,
“what fine sap, it sticks
to our fingers.”
But they wash it off and move on,
they forget it.
But you can’t wash good poetry away.
Good poetry never comes free from your soul.
I am sitting in a barbershop, waiting.
This is not a metaphor,
this is not a poem
the gentle buzz of the razor means nothing.
The machine continues.
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