To a certain degree, our friendship,
when put to a fish-eye lens
of great magnitude on a 360° camera,
to try to see it, this friendship,
wide and whole, that sight
could only be a glimpse.
I have lived this so long,
and to live this even longer still
a better poet would be left
too shy to speak.
I am no better poet.
I have no words that leave me shy
only no words at all.
See me comb the dictionary
to find them while
you write your novel
over these orange slices,
and a pot of tea.
Author's Note:
A joke I've always found charming: a novelist and a poet arrange to meet for afternoon tea. They ask one another, "How was the morning writing?" The novelist jumps to answer, "I outlined my next manuscript, drafted four chapters, and revised two others. The morning was incredibly productive." The poet responds, "As was mine. I added a comma at breakfast, and removed it by lunch." There is a modern idyllicism for a young writer where a friendship is found in silence save for the sound of ink or the click-clack of a keyboard.
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