There’s a marinara stain
on this page upon which I’m writing.
This makes it part of the poem.
Since you aren’t reading this
from the same page upon which it was writ,
you can’t see it.
But it’s there in a figurative sense.
Its presence, while unseen, is felt
in every single word.
It insinuates itself between the lines.
It makes this poem what it is.

-r. miller

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