(a Golden Shovel poem using my Ro. Sham. Beau. poem from day 26)
We thought it
was what it was,
the end and be all
of sigh-language fun,
the soup to nuts and
center guts of all games
of the heart and dynamite
smiles. All the while, we really
didn’t see the fabled forest until
we ran into the trees, and every one
of those roadblocks. What we make of
it is less than the total sun of adding us
to a sky of stars. What you do next (that
mystery) would make more sense, would
mend this broken fence if only we could be
held in unquiet hands. See? (But don’t ask me),
I’m just a scribbled storm, prosaic pandemonium hit
with a loose thought, caught right here between a rock
and a hard place, a ghost-traced word on invisible paper,
an origami ink-stained girl finally daring to run with scissors
straight for all things that need a new mosaic, from top to bottom.
::
At the end of April, we remix.
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