Every poet
has a bucket,
yes a bucket,
and in each one
we carry trash
junk litter waste
scrap, anything
and everything
we’ve ever found.
No one wants it.
You cannot help
that you want it.
Sit on the ground
stir its contents
crumpled, dirty,
still, something shines.
Mold the pieces
polished, pristine,
and it’s all yours.
No one wants it.
But you want it.
Keep wanting it,
keep changing it,
say the word “trash”
over, again,
listen until…
it lost...
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