15.2.2020
46
all the straw dogs
shall we speak the making of a poem?
as all prophetic for
here I am among them
a kind of telling to the world each day
writing out lines
just for the wickedness
of must
and this that
these words in favour of impressions
taken for a fact
they are getting me going
rubbing my
straw dogs to whom we all report
sacred as much until
pushing the buttons
from scratch and patch it
already I am misremembered
here in my corner yet to dry
still rub, touch
gathered as in accusation
tossed off if no one minds
under a higher pile
conceal myself in paint
and tune
misapprehension’s industry
away with it again
loose lipped
with shipping sunk
I’m misquoted and mismatched
in gossip
from whisper
and having changed hands
so I speak my mind
where
is there some eternal law?
has someone told me how to think?
no, freedom’s what I will
and shall we make the poem speaking?
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