by Brett Rutherford
Poets are
the pigeons
of literature.
in cathedral spires,
though neither great
nor holy. They are
hungry, always,
needful, nesting
mournful, mating,
more of them
each time a war
memorial springs up,
freighting to
and fro the messages
they claim they get
from the gods themselves.
Arrogant birds!
Pay them no mind!
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