SF (June 17 1942 / Troy New York)

In The Middle Of The Night

IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT

In the middle of the night
A poem has to write itself
And these lines
Forced from where they come
Do not know
If they reach the mark or not.

I write poetry, yes,
But am I a true poet?
Am I a true ‘anything’
Or just always
Someone who tries and tries and tries,
And does not know
When to stop?

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