I love poetry the way the mother loves child, the way the wanderer loves travel, the way the farmer loves the soil. No matter how many times it pukes on my shoulder, loses my luggage or puts me through a drought, I will always return to it.
My body will turn back toward it, after a night left at sea, yearning and pleading to lie side by side. It is not whole nor free, without the words skipping up and down it's spine, each night
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