Words don’t always rhyme;
Rhythm slinks in odd directions.
Imagery tip-toes along skittish slopes,
Teetering — about to tumble (either way) into danger
Inevitability lurks behind what we say
& what we see: “Is it a pipe?”
Rene Magritte says, “No!”
But is he write?
Who put the fresh green apple on the suited man’s face?
Or the pillowy sky in his pristine eye?
Masked lovers kiss longingly through baggy-skin:
“Ruth Gordon convinced her father, a sea captain, to let her pursue acting.”
Words don’t always rhyme;
Rhythm drumbeats odd instructions.
“Who let the dogs out?”
It wasn’t me — I promise.
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