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
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