Sometimes Poetry is Asleep

That is when I go a slight bit insane
Even though I remember
Somewhere deep inside
Where images fly from left to right,
Down and under, in cunning  twists
All winging, as if they are foreign birds
Taking on extreme heights.
I know I cannot fly like that
But at the same time, I can fly
Somewhere inside, where
For the moment poetry is asleep.
It is like frothy milk oozing in a full udder
Of a mama cow,
Her bright pink skin bulbous
Waiting to be suckled again|
Waiting for that moment of release.
My question is: When can I bless the sky?
The mountains, trees, turkeys,
And the chickens, who in turn
Taught the turkeys how to peck
For food, for soul, for wellbeing.
Sometimes poetry is fast asleep.
Sometimes poetry is already there.

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