Something brushed up against my leg as I finished listening to a poem being read by a NY poet about feeling small in a universe filled with suns and moons and Mars. And so I am here. I am left to dig up images buried beneath the soft silt below the ocean: God help me. I'm trying to paint with words, not numbers; trying to be a devious craftsman, but sometimes all I have is red wine and ten minutes alone with my pen.
A door slams.
1 comment:
I'm not sure if this poem is finished. The door always seems to slam while I'm in the middle of a thought.
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