Writing This Book

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This book keeps its secrets like a bear trap holds its kill.

This book closes its pages like a mouth upon regrets.

This book wants to be written like a kitten wants a thrill.

This book keeps its secrets.

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This book wants nothing from you and it doesn’t take your bets.

You play your hand, your play your words, you ante up and still

you’re a hundred pages deep and all you’ve won is debts.

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This book is a murder of crows, a swarm of dreams, a house upon the hill.

This book locks you out, eats the key and keeps it.

You plead with it to let you finish it, but you know it never will.

This book keeps its secrets.

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NOTES: Because I had the Roundel in my brain, I thought I’d give it another go. Also: One more day of poetry! It went so fast. I didn’t write the quality of poems this year that I did last year, I don’t think. There was a lot more going on in my real life that affected my ability to concentrate, but it was still a fantastic practice for me.

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