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Cherry kerosene

It’s been a year since I wrote a poem and
I’m excited about the event;
the writing, the versing.
My meter’s grievous bent.

Words may no longer dazzle
like sunlight on water,
freshly corked champagne
or the eyes of only daughters.

But if gifted a causal notion
or some extemporaneous ruse
I can supply a blackbird on a wire
or some field mice, now nesting in my shoes.