Tuesday, October 21, 2014


I took my new poem to her,
A good poem it was.
She read it
And we discussed how
It falls in place with the new cryptic genre:
We saw that the images held together well.
One of us, must be me, even gave count of the syllables
To see how much of a haiku the poem was.

Later I remembered that she never asked who the poet was:
Something within me burst like a soap-bubble in sun.

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