she would never be a planet

it was a Tuesday thought
she would never be a planet
no orbits for her no
place on a mystical chart
oh Emily Dickinson
where were you when she needed you
so suspiciously perfect your metre
(who were you trying to impress?)
and Gertrude Stein
your verse so blank
so serviceable before its time
and Sylvia so self-deadly we found you lost
and wept the
poets were useless
and she’d never be a planet
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