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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