My abiding image of poetry,
is being dragged to hear Frieda Hughes.
And sitting
on a children's chair in the front row
and looking up into her vag,
draped in bottle green slacks,
while she read verse about Rumpelstiltskin
to generous applause.
It's not Frieda's fault.
One can not more refuse to be born
than go back into the ocean
in some vain hope
of one day becoming a whale from a mouse.
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