Though Shalt Not Spill Thy Seed of Debauched Poems
Do not spill your seed ‘til red
My ears are bleeding in my bed
The foliage of your poems need
time
Understand, dear poet--your work
is fine
It’s not your thoughts or what is
said
I just do not like every line
You steal my time with your bad
rhyme
Force tubes of stroppy turns down
my throat
Rub sand of ill-wrought stanza in
my eyes
Rob expansive meaning with cliche
From your unripe poem, give me
liberty
Or give me silence. Know when to give birth
Let your poem release from the
body
In its time. Perhaps at ten
fifty-two
In the morning, when October’s maple
Draws down the saps to the
cooling earth
And a wobbly sun both bursts and
seeps
To coax a letting go, a swooping fall
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