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How does a poem begin?
A poem begins with a breath. A wingbeat. A stone tossed into a murky puddle. Then begins the sinking, the flying, the breathing. But also the stillness. A sleeping swan, face tucked into her plume. The transfixed child first seeing two women kiss. Peanut butter threatening to spill off the spoon, but staying firm in her convictions. A poem begins as soon as I put my feet on the cold floor in the morning. Or as soon as sun beams slip through the blinds and rouse the cat who then rouses me, fish breath my favored alarm clock. Or does a poem begin on the pillow plush with dreams? You tell me.