The mind can’t speak

But hearts can listen


A feeling has no form

Until it takes shape


Nothing can be born

Before it has gestated


What would a premature

Poem look like?


Concise, one might say,  but,

At least, finished


It is the aborted ones I am

Concerned with and there have

Been many


Often deleted and lost forever

Because they are so easy to erase


Emily Dickinson had no such

Intention for her unwanted’s


She posed them in an incubator

Under the bed, for Lavinia to foster.