to all you poems
that floated by me
making faces screamed
as they fell off my ears
or slipped from my greasy fingers
I’m sorry you guys
don’t give up on me
come back around
I’ll try harder
to find you
I know you think
your presence is obvious
as plain as a second
nose on my face
or a lit match under a finger
but to me
you’re the tiniest tug
in the corner of my eye
the dust mote that dances
a little different
from all the others
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