Focus. Work on finishing that poem. It grows. It shrinks. It breathes. Perhaps overthinks. Because that’s what a poem does. It is as I am. It lives its own life. She rights me as I write her but she won’t wait and I find the poem is poet and I …
She lives in these false little timesin her false little skinsso to stitch together a soulfor her ghost collecting them.
Before the wind picked up and moved on she thought she heard a voice, a new one remembering how to listen and how to speak. She found the boy on a blanket under a tree but he was not speaking to her. Not yet. He was speaking to the tree. …
On writing: Float like a flutterby but plant your feet when throw knockdown punches.
A groundhogtries to dighis way outfrom undermy thunderbut even he’senlightened.
I hadn’t learned about them in school yet, numbers less than Zero, but by the time I learned to count to Ten I knew that, naturally, they were there holding the rest up. Zero wasn’t doing it all by himself. Or maybe he was. He was certainly capable. Unique as …
