Ten-Minute Poem
The first minute, blank
brains filled with paper whiteness,
unlined, creative.
The second, third, fourth
go in a whiz, fizz, unpro
ductive row of parts
The halfway point; five
slow minutes; tired poem
drags your tired pen
Six, seven, eight, nine,
minutes leap like frogs in front
of a metaphor,
leaping at the last
minute, when time writes itself
into the whiteness.
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