My stomach
Is heavy, pregnant with the Muse,
Roiling in the lower gut, which,
‘Sorbing up the booze
Retains the lighter chunks of food –
The heavier will always drop, as Nature
Drags the denser weight,
By force of deep, electric plates,
And as these lines fall on the page.
Is love, then, Nature that I write?
In all events the errors right
Themselves and words slump into place
Like leaves,
The body’s spirit baring trees.
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