When the urge to write slows to a trickle
and the need to talk seems superfluous
the funnel of listen fills with earwax
summer’s vase stuck with dry flies
and all the flowers fall drooped
one awakes yet again and gets up
aroused by the unsurpassable sun
spilling coffee on the backs of its studs.
On Urges
Categories: Poetry
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The Coming of the Toads 