i don’t think birds flying sunrise
is poetic, i don’t believe flowers
blooming spectacular is art, i don’t
hear music in the sound of chugging
trains nor do i feel sadness in snow
sticking to the window glass, but
the way you sing out of tune
to sinatra songs, curse at burning
your finger on the skillet, then
turning away into your soft
shoulder and sneezing is pure
fucking poetry.
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