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O, woman thy airy ways have — but stop!                            

You must be green of reading po’tic sop

That’s written about virginal stares blate —

Is such not dropped from some much thickened pate?

 

But soft — to write a poem on writing not

Is still but movement of quill’s doting jot.

As silver doubloons of negative flirt —

My words are traitors! Me the fool, they blurt

 

Now take, fee simple, your leave sans envoi

And ride your linguistic Ba-yard in joy

To even lusher meadows of your own.

(An apology, this, for decades thrown)

 

So quit that heart (it beats along too fast)

And read instead the words your eyne saw last.

 

 

Michael T. Smith is an Assistant Professor of English who teaches both writing and film courses.  He has published over 150 pieces (poetry and prose) in over 80 different journals.  He loves to travel.

 

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