A Poet

I listen
To the gentle susurrus
Of words trailing in streams
On surface tiles
Gathering at outlets
Dropping into conduits
Inside these walls.

I marvel at woven sheets
Made from threads
Of satin, silk, cotton,
Even wool.
They caress
They comfort
And for a brief moment
In reverence
I forget

The frigid motion
I am stuck in.

Then I think
A poet
Is whom
I’d like to die with.

But they didn’t have to be.

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