A poem plucks me from the day to day
into bygone places--
in all their glory or distress—
but compressed--liquid flushed--
only glucose in the soft skin
of a raisin
pressed onto my blank page.
I look at the mess up close,
sometimes for the first time.
A poem can pounce from a scent
and hurl me back
to the high school gym.
Or leap from a song and suddenly
I am cutting my wedding cake again.
I can feel it, see it, be it
one last time.
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