THE POEM THAT CAME TO ME LAST NIGHT

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The poem that came to me last night
Has yet to be put into words—
There was insufficient light,
The flickering fell into halves, then thirds;
I could not see to write.

The subdivided sun questioned itself into nothing
And I crouched alone in the darkness.
Still, there was a tickle climbing up my spine,
As if a tickle might lead to a thought,

A thought to a plan, a plan to a crime:
Murderer, stay—I led you here—to be caught.

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