I skim
poem after poem
desperate to
learn the craft

stop sometimes to
mouth what they have
my unpracticed voice
it sounds
that I may well be
making a meal of them

so much meat in every syllable
bone, sinewed flesh
whereas with me
thin gruel, watery stew

or (worse) fast
instant stuff like
popped out of a microwave
but no
Big Bang residue or
sign of light-energy

that kind of pastry where
your pipe out the mixture adding
layer after layer
with near
infinite care

just a
going through the motions
to fool I am
trying my best.

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