Work in progress for this week.
1.
"If raindrops rhymed we would all be poets"
Instead, I pull mangled leaves of grass from muddy rivulets
smooth them dry upon blank paper
study the wet imprint;
my flesh prickles at the echo of distant thunder.
2.
"If raindrops rhymed, we would all be poets'.
Instead I pull mangled leaves from muddy rivulets
smooth them dry upon steaming asphalt
study the evaporating imprint.
My flesh prickles at the echo of distant thunder.
Thursday, January 15, 2009
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