Are layers of an edited poem visible?

Digital footprints? Tree rings? Shale? Seen through Plexiglas? Or, password protected and invisible?



How does a well-cooked meal improve by its out-takes? Craft & play. Today’s grilled baby artichokes proclaimed inedible; tossed out with the junk mail. Yearning for success, try again.

How does editing mature a poem?

The poet is smitten with its newborn. Love lies down with perspective. Time, patience, and trial/error required to appreciate the developing work.



How frequently does the mature palette return to toasted cheese sandwich w/tomato? Peanut butter w/jam always fresh/immediate, never usurped by the baroque.

What does editing a poem & recycling have in common?

Where do outtakes of lines of poetry end up?

Scraps. Filled/crossed-out pages. Appropriated ink. Accounted for.

A list-poem waiting to happen?



Scraps. Of food. Compost.

Or salvaged? (personally speaking) Leftovers. Enjoyed. As in, put to good use. Mulch?
Lunch, never better.

Does editing a poem make words deciduous?

Fall away. In Spring blooms shed as is nature. The deciduous celebrates space. Is this akin to the minimal in poetry?



In a meal conversation is bud, bloom and story. A revealing of space. Of taste. Texture, too.
And the story, continually edited.