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Poem Without an Image

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They will tell me that my poem needs an image,
a lamp-lit puddle or the shadow play
of our lovemaking on the bedroom wall;

that reading it’s like eating raw onions –
not the sweet, white, Spanish kind
but the homegrown, green-headed kind

that make you cry without emotion. If I must
conform, then here; a wheelbarrow; a man;
a woman; an envelope behind a picture frame.