a trek across the formerly unfamiliar, fortunately puddle-ridden forest of the literary tradition
I seem to have since stopped, stooped, stared, and found myself anew at each body of water’s edge.
The forest of literature looks aged and fixèd, but grows to consume those those who wish to define its borders or ignore its presence.
Thank you for leading me here. I think I’d like to stay and explore.
we should always spend our winter days
watching snow fall in a myriad of special ways
by the good grace of god
we’ve all been given special names
Some days are for surrender
you shouted with an ironic distemper
and a look of imminent depart
that you held from the very start.
If you have any flaws at all
Quick, bury them deep beneath my feet with your paws.
The serrated edge of educated kids with smoke on their fingertips…
and you’ve coffee-stained lips.
renegade take refuge in number and noise
with your bells and whistles go’n sing with the boys.