Sometimes I end a poem with

An audible, “huh,” like I

Didn’t know the ending when I started.

And perhaps that’s true, I

Rarely know where the pen will drift

Once set to paper.

It is almost as if these words, buried so

Deep can only find

Release when the inky connection is made

So that I am made

And informed of myself by myself when I

Sit down to write.

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