calling: busy poets

what good are
hurried poems
dashed off in
short minutes
we steal from
ourselves (the
day only has
so many and
only so many
can be devoted
to poetry)?

these hurried
poems that we
write for the
sake of the moment
in which we write
them and for the
sake of the need
felt, words bubbling
I fumble with them
in these moments

it is no juggling
act, really

the poetry
is always there
waiting for us
to turn around
to look
to claim it
to bless a moment
with a new or old truth
we previously left

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