Poetry has many inspections
each line, like thought, re-touched.
We frown at fingered collections
of nouns, and other, stuff.
There are troublesome inflections
and bleeding, wrung-out, verbs,
the wandering explications
of rhymes, the metre, serves.
There are stand alone conjunctions
in hope, that it, amazes,
where
in solitude it functions
in contrived, schematic, phrases.

Words...

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