Perhaps you will read me at coffee cup's bottom
or on the print of an old tin can
Perhaps you will read me in the daily news
or in tales of a foreign land
Perhaps you will read me in Rachmaninoff's
visceral sounds swirling 'round your head
engulfing you in feelings
you'd long given up for dead
Perhaps you will read me only
when my poetry is done
and packed away in dusty trunk
'neath window's setting sun.
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