About itself
It was brilliantly connected,
Theme to metaphor, form to function.
Loke Newton's nail-less bridge.
It hung suspended by its own
Gravity.
A moment ago I wrote a poem
That fell apart,
Partly because I've never seen a moment
. Partly because I've never seen a moment
. But, though I know I remember,
Word for word recall the lines
That stuck together like calculus,
I can't be the same person.
A moment ago he wrote a poem,
A poem that I can never know.
I only know it like a freezer,
Rigid and cold.
Soemtimes that other person gets out
Stumbling like and ice man thawed,
He has my face, but is really out of place,
A relic poem writer. But where then
Is the poet? Or rather, when?
A man named Newton made a magic bridge
Where wood's weight pushed up wood
So no nail need scar it. But,
Not to be outdone, Nature worked away
Till the wood rotted away,
And all Newton's students
Couldn't put it back together again
Without nails.
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