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The First Slippery

I feel the first slippery

silken drops of poetry rise

to spill from the pen-tip:

How to catch them perfectly, in

which spine-stitched notebook,

creamy satin pages yet unsullied?

The torrent presses, escapes, warm, wet

ink spills, runs through fingers grasping,

visions glitter in soft jewel colors

a message thumps in tick tock staccato, pulse

racing now thickening warm verse slipping

onto the damp page, elastic

slick with portent,

dry soon as the

moment surely



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