poetry does not hide under special leaves in warm rainfalls
it does not poor forth from secluded waterfalls
it does not fly on the wings of an eagle flying between the poet's eye and the sunshine
or at least not just in those places
poetry lives in the brick-wall grime rimming the the mechanic's calendar
poetry sings in the farting muffler of the teenager's pick-up ripping up the main strip for the sixth time since supper
poetry is the three day old mark left on the knife from cutting cheap orange cheddar
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