Xiv

My poems used to rhyme before you Now they don’t Gifted hands, sharp words Making the suffering my master Green eyes like branches on Christmas tree They can look like the honey you put in your tea Every line in your body has still her name in it The name of the poet who came before me But I keep wondering where my rhyme is My red haired muse’ s gone and took it with him I found instead every line, every stanza... When I don’t need them anymore Cause I along with my refined British accent learned in school can finally say out loud: Poetry is you