After
The fruits of loneliness -
not all bitter pears plucked from accidental trees -
No, some inhabit storms
drown in spots unimagined,
harbingers of equally strange joy
the plane stays blessedly aloft
and I return to my seat
gritty pearls of pear skin
still on these lips
I've been told you have to write 100 bad poems in order to write one you like.
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