Some days
the poems don’t come easy
in the sunshine.
Sometimes it’s easier
to write in the rain.
A “single mom weekend”
appears to be what it takes
to get me to reach out,
grasping wildly at something
resembling a social life.
When does a thought become
so unspeakable
it can’t even be written?
How cloistered is
the poet’s heart, in truth?
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