Bones

(an erasure poem)

This poem is
the sludge of
her pencil,

the long lost magic
of that gold paint
noise.

 

In April, we poem. 

 

Erasured from this poem from day 21:
Bare Bones

This poem is drawn
       (and quartered)

in charcoal smudge
and the sludge of
lily pad glee. Stretch

her inpencil-thin
lines, out-of-time
strings, the long lost
things at the bottom
of your artcase. Place

her cloud-shy in a
magicmarker sky,
and just try and tell
her she’s not quite
real. Feel

her flow, traced in
lace and grace and
the glow of that gold
-leaf moon. Swoon
to the smells and spells

of turpentine and oil
-paint, palette ready, brush
poised. Make some noise
as she steadies her outline,
pulls on skin, begins.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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