| Tell you something about poetry, it refuses
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| It breaks and asks to be broken
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| The broken pieces form a question mark
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| And this is the revolutionary poem, exclamation point
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| The radical belief that broken is beautiful
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| That breaking is essential
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| That revolution is built from wreckage
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| Exclamation comes from asking
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| The question is, «What use do we have for time not measured by the rivers
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| dancing beneath us?
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| In us? |
| Befor us?»
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| We pray like this, majestic, lectric
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| We slide, step, dip, shake, every room a dance floor
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| Let all my skin kin in, let sunshine in
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| Let me kiss on my loves chosen and fought for
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| Come, make you a plate
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| Pour some out
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| Return and get it
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| This is the thing about poems
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| They want to live
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| They remind us when we forget how to love and be love
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| How even leaves have veins with stories to tell
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| And we are the stories
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| We are the radical and hopeful
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| We are the revolutionary poem, exclamation point
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| You don’t have to go home, but this is only the start
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| The good part is what comes next |