Do you like poetry?
well? yes? no?
no? did the question unravel like you’d been asked about a length of masking tape? flat. beige. separate from yourself. something best kept on a dusty shelf.
yes? did you concede in spite of having to respond to the vacant ring of a cliche? unable to prevent your deepest instinct from rearing up & scoffing: “LIKE? that IS me.”
’tis a polarizing query. yet, perhaps we misunderstand each other.
for what is poetry but conviction & mystery & the passing appreciation of the grandest and minutest details of this world? the darkness when we go to bed at night.
and who doesn’t like that?