From the get go, assume every poem imbeds a question.
From which limb, which organ of the poet did the question spring?
A question (explicit or implicit) is sufficient. The answer is the umbrella you misplaced.
Which foods feed question-making? A split dish with a friend. Two glasses. Wine.
Meta Love Part V
ReplyDeleteAlong the gated Boulevard
the scoundrels bide their time
No rainy days no empty pockets
Distract them from their shrine
Where do they go Why do they stay
It's never very clear
But often you can hear them say
I wish I had done something else
Is there another way?