Wednesday, October 19, 2011

Egg. Is the poem kin to the egg?

Yes, and this isn't about which came first. About inception. And, of course, who doesn't hear yolk in yoke.

The egg is miraculous in its myriad of formats. And consistency. Sometimes obvious.
Sometimes blended to mere invisibility. But present. Now, consider hybrid writing.

1 comment:

  1. lickety split and then out the door

    some trace of evening stays 'til dawn

    and all them stumbles up the cobbles

    to find a pint of beer

    tarry not says the village

    danger in the doorway

    the sink all full of morning

    & no one else is home

    ReplyDelete