I woke last night
for the first time ever
pulled down one of my poems
floating away on a gust of wind
everything chained to it—
The screen door laying on the porch
leftover chicken scattered in the lawn
a trail of broken dinnerware strewn across a damp field
knives spoons forks
worse than hail
I pulled a fork out of my arm
cut the poem loose
watched it blow toward the lake
If you find it buried in the sand
an address stuck to it with masking tape
don't attempt to read it
don't send it back
winds are still blowing
let it loose before it maims you
it's not my fault
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