Wednesday, April 14, 2010

I did a lot of things today that I wanted to write about

but I spent my time doing them instead.

This is a scrappy piece from yesterday:
My poem won't hold still,
(like a baby who wants to catch a butterfly)
can't pin it between the pinch
of a ball-pointed impression,
It vibrated out
and the sounds dissipated in 8 different directions.
(the humbled, now-too-big images crawl back to their chrysalis)

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