On the Thingness of Poems

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Is a poem ever a thing
Or does it become
Only upon reading
Or singing
Or can it live in the mind
As a memory or feeling
This one here
Is ones and zeroes
Drawn with light
Is a poem a leaf
Where the ink is arranged
Carefully enough
Or words on a fridge
Pieces of thought
But with no one to read
What is it then?
Just a few scribbles
From the tip of a pen


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