Is there a subject for poetry,
a reason for this mental itch?
What is this affliction I have that
dates to the beginning of time?
It seems to be beyond us
hardwired in our genes.
Do the stars think in verse?
Do they think at all?
Surely it cannot be totally unique
just to us human skinned ones.
I'd love to have a conversation
with a snail about his thoughts.
Imagine poems about the joys of
slime trails and slow leaf ascents.
Imagine the whole universe
blazing with images and lines.
Zen Oleary
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