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I used to take this pen
to rewrite any city
I take a liking to
I used to blot out the night
with ink
and reinvent the stars
I used to send my poetry
into the collective consciousness
of the soul of the world
like paper cranes
flying across a mysterious moon

I used to smile as if I had a secret

but I used to flow
as the Seine flows:
self-assured and deep
a heart beating, holding its own
subliminally there
intuitively omnipresent
and my brand of beauty had had
a street address
in reality
anyone can visit
any time

until you

until you made me

until you made me

it still felt like
I was falling when you left me
I’m starting to understand
what it is
that beckons to the Parisians
to jump into
certain death
just to be intimate
with that river

now my mind is full of
balls of crumpled paper
that had been good-enough poems
I wouldn’t have minded passing out
to a stranger
now I’m not so sure
now I’m tearing pages off my
comfort zone
the ripping sounds reverberating
and my pen has a new
insecure, uncertain stroke
it’s never known before