When the Poem I Was Writing
When
the poem I was writing caught fire,
I
wondered which line to save.
I
narrowed my smoke-stung eyes
And
pored over the piece,
But
even as I deliberated,
I was
choked by the smell
Of
burning alliteration.
No time
to choose –
Soon,
the whole page would come down.
I
crawled across the bottom margin,
Which
they say is the safest place to be
Within
a burning poem,
And
clutched wildly
For any
clause
Not yet
hot enough
To sear
my tongue when uttered.
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