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Sparks
my poetry has failed me
its insufficient
arrangements of alphabet
stumble over their own serifs
lisping s’s and stuttering l’s
o that every star were a letter
with which to write
the constellations in my heart
and words were weightless
feathered things
unfettered by the gravity
of innuendo
the incapacities of misjudgment
I would sing for you
in the language
of a warmest blood
my gentlest lark
these incomplete sentences
left behind us showered
dim as arcing sparks
its insufficient
arrangements of alphabet
stumble over their own serifs
lisping s’s and stuttering l’s
o that every star were a letter
with which to write
the constellations in my heart
and words were weightless
feathered things
unfettered by the gravity
of innuendo
the incapacities of misjudgment
I would sing for you
in the language
of a warmest blood
my gentlest lark
these incomplete sentences
left behind us showered
dim as arcing sparks
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