Monday, January 10, 2011

Nails. What affixes a poem?

A dance of fingers on a page, across a keyboard? A (proverbial) stake into? Paperclip?

Or is a poem truly never fixed, swaying like a prayer flag? Wandering like a walker?


Food. Swirling. A spoon stirs soup. Mostly mushrooms.
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1 comment:

  1. sgang123January 11, 2011 at 12:23 PM

    And then into

    a beginning of moons and years
    none but the sheep would know
    where is the new grass, the warm tree

    ReplyDelete

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