25
While I, not writing the great novel,
you sewed cherubs onto guaze
and read my thoughts.
You would say 'that I was drifting,
too ambiguous, of too weak a plot,'
and I would agree
burning the thoughts, seeking a new hook
I would watch with amazement
the picture grown from stitches.
'If only words could do that,'
my great un-started novel would say.
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