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To Nicole: May I Never Hear Again That You Don't Understand Poetry

By Lee Nelson

Honey, it's poetry.

It's hardly the poetry of two lovers living and loving

their chosen spent and irretrievable moments together,

but it tries, it tries to express

something, anything

similarly inexpressible

and if it succeeds,

or even falls flat

inches from glory for the ages,

we give it a name.

We call it poetry.

It's hardly the poetry of two lovers cherishing joy,

remembering magic forever or forgetting entirely,

yet reckoning years ecstatic and tireless

with hands embraced,

but it stabs at that pith,

and if it skewers,

if it cores and holds

the essence

of such a perfect delicacy,

it could be.

It could be poetry.

It's hardly the poetry of two lovers

conquering the killers of their original bliss,

holding their shared heart across the trials

of a one and only road,





and growing

the bifurcated oak

of their shared souls,

but it tries,

it fires at the moon

with rubber bands,

and in all certain defeat,

it could be.

It could be poetry.

Honey, It's poetry,

but two lovers dancing

to the original songs of two who hear

the world and one another

like no other union

will ever exact,

and nurture their rapture to the ashes?

Two lovers embracing

their unfolding and unparalleled soliloquy

to a grace known only to them

for all eternity?

Honey, it's poetry.

It'll never be that poetry.

Nothing ever will or could,

but it tries.

It tries very hard,

and this the grace and love

of your forgiving and shockingly

altruistic heart

will always hands down

till the coda of our rhapsody

forever endearingly







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