The poem hides from the poet.
Right there, underneath the house,
with mice and frogeyes-where the mouse dies
in pain. The writer has glasses on the table,
filled with writers passion. The poet flees from the poem,
on the table. And humanity´s Hamlet, what six legged creature
can write like Shakespeare? The poem escapes so grab it with
steelfingers, before it goes-print, into the dark wide room.
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