You Asked Me if I Considered Myself a Poet Today

Do I breathe with the ebb and flow of the tides?
Could I be easily enchanted with the soft buzzing of a bee?
Have I blown out a candle just to become hypnotized 
by the dark patterns of the meandering smoke?

Do the passing clouds dare me to assign them 
an identity on windy summer afternoons?
If I cut my lip, do I close my eyes and enjoy
the ferrous accents of the blood on my tongue?

Today, when I sat next to you and our hands 
accidentally brushed, did they also spark?
Did they send flames flying up your arm?
Did you feel me fall into the infinity of your eyes?

Am I drowning in a sea of poetry?
Is poetry the raft keeping me afloat? 
Does it fill my lungs with every breath?

Does it fill my pockets? Will it ever?

Or are you really asking me,
Will I turn you into poetry?

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