I am not nimble with words
I can't dance around phrases
or make a poem's sun shine
I can't convince my letters
to pair off starkly in the watercolor sky
with tiny wings and sharp swoops
they always run away together
away from patterns, style, and form
they spray in all dimensions
coming back with hands full of the world
all their meanings matching and morphing,
each one fresh and unconfined
then I just click them all together
by their various ins and outs
tacking them with meaning
keeping them beautifully mine forever
but worth less
than they ever could be
had I left them to the world
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