Braille



He reads her
like the neck
of a guitar, the syllables
of a song
he has always known;
the tilt of a note
played strong.

He stills her smaller storms
as rests, treble clefs
trembled,
raised places
for hungry fingers.

Her name is a speckled
code unseen,
a loose
wandering
wished between
………….stars.


prompted by Quickly.

 

 

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after the chickpea


(post-hummus-ly),

we dip into more important things;
spring, and the way it tastes on our
skin, silence

and the stories it breathes
true. we award ourselves ever
-after names, the consolation

prizes of never-always,
and the de
-composition of leaving.

 

 


prompted by Quickly.

 

 

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Listing Slightly to the Left



I have here in my hand
a list of demands:

The universe is somewhat
dismayed by our lack
of ability to turn the corners
of our mouths skyward.

Keep all appendages in
-side the ride, and ignore
the rearview mirrors: things
are opener than they appear.

Only hold your breath
on the third step; the others
are boobytrapped, and the
hostages have not yet been
released.

Would all purveyors of
periwinkle please report
to the weeping willow?

There’s a brown Camri
(license plate 463 NAW)
in the parking lot,
blocking
the
sun.

 

..

prompted by Quickly.

 

 

 

 

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This.



This is the thing
she has been wanting
……..(waiting)
to say, this

is the still-stung song of un
-silence, the violence of things
at last felled and felt. This

is the holy
grail, the flail and fail
of fragment, some semblance
of storm strung
along. This

is the capital at the be
-ginning, the period
……..(let’s make it three; ellipsis
……………..eclipses reason)
at the end. This
is the friendly breeze
stirring her soft, the gray
sky storing her sane,
the wet ground calling her
fullest name. This

is the way she breathes,
the place she knows how to be
-long, strong, staid. This
is the final
………card
…..played.

 

 

….

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I only want to write first lines.



draw you in,
then leave you
hanging.

set a stage,
cast a phrase
then hold
my tired tongue.

give me a quill,
love. i’ll fill a fraction
of the page, thrill
you with

a thousand
brilliant
………novels
of just
……a dozen
or so
………..words each.

 

 

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Sub: Conscious

….

I wrote 13 poems today.

So what? Who reads them?

(Sew what?) (Who reeds them?)

……………………(Sew what? Who reaps them?)

So
what,
who
needs
them?

 

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finally poeming


….

fin ally: poeming
fine alley, poem ing
final lee: poeming
finally poe-eming
fine gnaw lea, po’ emming

……….fine all, lie poeming
…….final lie: poeming.

 

 

..

 

 

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