awaiting the amateur voice

where could this piece

(broken in haste)      fit within

the grid that beautifies a night?

leaving you more unashamed,

even a little proud          of emerged reds

that will never ever qualify                                      as rubies.

we did not cut our feet on               bickering’s edge

but the surface of your big toe swells like a captivated ear

enjoying         modest breeze                                                           and public song

making the most out of

the rebellious                        propaganda in

your English teacher’s rock garden, standing       and waiting

for       your sheepish stumble

and some budding timbre that assures him enough

that the Last Word was never so ultimate.


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