In Which I Try To Make My Clumsiness Into A Virtue

There’s nothing that I eat that I can’t find some way to spill.
I do it with panache; I mean, why do it with ill will?

I’m clumsy as a metaphor that’s made up of clichés —
And spill so much my shirt has got a constant sort of glaze

Made up of every thing that I have tried that day to eat:
But what I wear’s a lot like me
Confused, but
Sort of sweet

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