Eyes swelled with dawn’s red waves of sun.
They were not in a pink of sleeping health.
There were no poems to flow from below
Where it lay prostrate swelling with night.

The central stream lay far in ocean waves.
Surface stream is not how we think we feel.
Words are a surface stream ,hardly a dawn.
A poem a day is somewhere deep in night.

Blank verse is a shallow deep of my sleep
Rising between oblivion and night’s sleep,
Between sleep and waking ,back to sleep
Words a forgetting, rhyme a mere sound.

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