I’d pour vast spaces
(E.g. insides of harps, skies)
With heart-colored roseblood.
Why weight, when a lieder is a song
To weigh your heart on,
A space to hang your hat on,
A way to heat your home
And lift your words beyond sighs?
A style I admire flies
Not unlike a Zeppelin (a leaden ship
That drops poems on bombs);
Which is to say, you must lift it
With something highly flammable
Inside like a credo or hydrogen, which
If caught, would catch
If not on fire, on sale or on time,
And propel the eyes with
Shear unwinding blindness.
But please do
not generalize.
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