When I have written
one-thousand poems
will there be one
perfect enough,
ripe enough,
to be plucked
and set at God's feet
as an offering
of first fruit?
Was I brave enough?
Was I wild enough,
to peel the skin of illusion
revealing
the juicy heart of truth?
Did my words nourish
with pulsing umbilical blood
the neonate dreams
of a new, more feral race?
When I arrive
at Heaven's gate,
will I hear God whisper, Let her pass,
a poet enters here.
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