To The Poet

I ingest what I love
and I apologize for the shape
of my tongue if swallowing you whole
brings you offense.

I read with my lips
and I apologize for the shape
of my song. I carved up
my voice so long ago.

And I apologize for the sponge
of my hands and the words
wrung from them
wet with your blood.

But my heart my pulse — its crude
syncopation — you’ve only
yourself to blame for letting me place
my ear so close to your chest.

Image: Jr Korpa on Unsplash

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