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Editorial Note




Four Poems
by Glenn Ingersoll


I'm not doing this
because I have an
urge to, really. The poem's
mewling and to shut
it up I gotta give it
suck, the pen's nipple plunged
into the poem's soft mouth.




The poem thinks when it
comes to an end --
that will be it! Death!
Four lines, a fifth
and then -- eternal oblivion!




The poem knows the man
who stands in the middle
of it. It goes over him,
around him; when he breathes
in the poem goes in and gets
squeezed by his heart until
it swirls in his fists and he
opens his mouth and sings
the poem out. And the poem
knows its way and goes on
without exactly ever leaving him.




If this were really
a poem I wouldn't
have to tell you.


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