Trying to keep a balance
between Ted Kooser and Ocean Vuong,
over streets of cobblestones,
left by all the poets before you,
traffic rushing past,
new styles, new poets, burbling,
bullshitting, bumping along ahead.
Some critic opens his car door
knocks you onto the street,
although your brakes scream
or maybe it’s you screaming.

It turns out: a wobbly down-hill poem,
or maybe it’s a win in the Tour de France
but it’s probably just a good ride
in the blessed summer sunshine.

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