Dilettantes
you called us
not the nomenclature
I would have chosen
at least not
for you
while I sully
clean white sheets
with impetuous
imperfect
and inchoate ardor
while I toil
at torturous
little bibelots
and solecisms
that I deny
and abrogate
you, with
laser precision
adorn the tenuous
night sky with
cool ebullience
tiny satellites
impervious to time
You would not
have it so
but I would call you
poet, priestess
many other things
imprecise things
all this
so you know
that when you
do offer your
uncannily indelible
oblations
it is like
Christmas
in my
inarticulate heart
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