Whoever brought me will have to take me home
From somewhere I have copied down:
Is there anything but but?
I did not copy this down.
This poetry. I never know what I'm going to say.
I will not say anything about winter.
I will say "Write a poem about finding an avocado on a train."
An avocado! On a train!
I will say "Write a poem about crayons up noses."
About whether to stand up or sit down when—
You know I agree with it all.
Like paprika. This is something true.
It is anything but but. A fucking avocado.
There's no winter in that.
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