(a found poem)
I was a sprinter,
an old poem in need of revision;
too many straws, not enough scarecrows.
I remember the color of sorrow,
spilled on bar napkins,
Moses on the mountain,
Amble with me.
I found a storm raging, treasure
in jars of clay. I don’t know what I look like
when I’m angry.
We stand for the sending song.
I started making mermaids,
………with tangerine wings.
Prompted by poetic asides.