Pretend this is about love—
a poem about love.
If it helps, I will
break it into short,
five line stanzas.

But it won’t rhyme.
You’ll have to pretend that, too.
I don’t want to mess
around with thesauri
and dictionaries.

It’s disappointing, I know.
But don’t get caught up
in prejudiced notions of form.
You control your expectations,
and thus your experience.

Like this: your favorite verse,
where the words move
your silent lips, a
mimicry of vicarious speech
for the tender truths revealed.

You liked that last quintain.
And you will merely skim
the next because your mind and
your heart are still reeling
in the afterglow of perfection.


And you’re back, but only because
of preconditioning that the
final line is always
supposed to be important.
It isn’t, really.




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