As midnight approaches I realize  

my poem has been written before
by Whitman who published his own work
again and again, celebrating himself
as lover and poet of nature.

W. C. W. wrote the same poem as
a memo on a refrigerator,
mastering the line, short lines
to control how to read his work.

Cummings wrote the same poem
when rhyme was declared dead.
He hid it, etcetera, creating his own
made up puzzle words.

Poets laud a total poem, a pure one.
giving their all,
considering the same elements
of the craft, and draft

the same poem,
aware that there can be
no pefect crime.