Your words are so damaged
I am compelled to suspect
They may be poetry
As Emily Dickinson knew
When the top of her head
Began to come off
That she was in
The presence of a poem.
Your images
Ignited by resentment
Exploded in our heads.
Your laser sentences
Melt down our cool.
Your atomic words
We fear
If the reactor overheats
May self destruct.
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