writing of sun and moon is a mistake,
so is a sonnet on the salty lake.
Perhaps it is now time to take true stock,
before the tired readers swear, laugh, and mock.
They cry out loud that I’m just one more fake,
a failing poet whose words fall and break
with all the rhythmic force of a dull rock.
I dare not laugh, but also cannot sigh,
I lost this match, I could not raise the steam
to take my locomotive from the shed.
My mind has no clear image, and my eye
is disconnected from all thought or dream,
the sheen upon my words has fallen dead.
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