the interviewer reads a quote to the poet.
the poet asks, -its stunning. who wrote that?
the interview chuckles and says -you did. they are your words.
the poet, surprised, says, -did i? when?
the interviewer tells them the publication date.
the poet nods, -well that is a long time ago then. 
the interviewer follows up, -how do you not remember those words? your words.
the poet, smiling, -i assure you, they were never my words.
the interviewer wonders, -but you wrote them?
the poet, -i found them. at the tip of my pen. we had one page of time together, then parted ways.
the interviewer stumbles, -what does that mean?
the poet, -when i found them they refused to be seen. they were proud, raw, feral. they bit back and tried to claw their way off the page.
the interviewer, wryly, -sounds like you tried to tame them.
the poet clarifies, -no. fed them, yes. sheltered, likely. protected and made them safer, definitely.
the interviewer, vexed, -and now?
the poet, -well we had agreed to never meet again. so i am not sure what happens next.

~for Mary Oliver

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