The Poet with Alexithymia

HAS TO BE pretty damned good to forge
feeling out of little verses if he ever wants
to go places. I mean, it must be tough
to express his deepest love/hate/fear
when he really has to labor to sound
profound. When his nightly dream
consists of buying a five-pound marble loaf cake
at a bakery two blocks away and hearing the wind
swirl secrets through the blooming trees
during his walk home, there’s not much
to do with that. I mean, can this guy even read such art
as truth and beauty from a lover’s eyes? Maybe he should
interpret things for us as best he can, so that we can learn
that life is our boundless bakery downtown,
birthed from the dream of a poet with a full stomach.

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