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Typos on the filtered glass.
Sulking flies on summer screens.
I want and need a poem to shriek.
To slice your ear as others have.
The "yes" critique is jingle bells
but we aren't courting Santa Claus.
You tell me where the stanzas shake.
I tumble down the stairs agreeing.
The size and squeeze of syllables.
Puzzle pieces dodging measure
same as busy eagle wings.

Form is, well, cilantro leaves
with scents of lilac unexplained.
Overkill is barking dogs.
Excess will announce itself
like bookends sliding down a shelf.
You read and weep and write your own.
Brush away clichés and all,
our hornets at a barbecue.
A writer on a writer's back.
Communion wafers in a cave.
We taste and pass the art along.
Children looking for the notes
in harbors of a rising choir.

      — Janet Buck