Chewing the cud

Poets are cows
Scattered on fields of language

Morning to evening they
Tear up juicy stalks of words

Worn molars chewing out chlorophyll
Defining, refining, agonizing

They need four compartments to
Ferment, ruminate, regurgitate

Language is imbued in their flesh
So we cut them open for our consumption

Today my words were stuck in my throat
A stubborn piece of steak, refusing to fall or rise

Many tried the Heimlich, but
I only succeeded in choking harder

Maybe by ingesting other poets I

4 thoughts on “Chewing the cud

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