I don’t think I have
ever written a poem
about the way you
used to drag me
across the sheets
with such ease
and how I always
laughed and laughed;

should have been angry
at being handled this way
but something about it was
more intimate than the word
even begins to describe and
I’ve never met anyone else who
could possess me that way and
I don’t think I ever want to.

Twice in the past 2 days I have told the people closest to me that “2015 is the year of real poetry work, darnit. Not just write write write like always, but do it with purpose.”

This is where I’m starting.


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