Poetry Is Not

Sunny Meadow

Poured from a word bottle

Or decanted from a

Morning of dew

Or dipped with silver nets

From streams of golden fish

Or distilled from

The last star’s shining

Before dawn

But rather

Blocked piece by piece

Fragment by fragment,

A mosaic of

Half-remembered dreams

A tapestry of forgotten imaginings

And a weaving of

Lost desires.


Dan Verner

April 5, 2017

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