Throw poems away. The
words get in your head and become
big ribbons unrolling
from the ribbon-wheel.
Carry armfuls of them to lunch.
In evening stumble over
them
going up the stairs with clean laundry.
Wrapped up in them turning from
right side to left side all night.
Who has time for all these children?
Breathe deep when your lungs are empty.
Throw poems away. They are
aging fruit. They are oranges from Christmas.
They are dried fruit you cannot eat dried.
The wind is under your young fingers. Hear the
stream in your ear. The woman
with a scarf brings plates of
almonds for breakfast.
Enjoy the life parts.
Everything will go away
to away where poems are.
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2 comments:
"Carry armfuls of them to lunch."
I love this line, among others.
There are certainly times I should throw mine away, rather than post them...
Poems litter my compter desktops, with names like Poem 20080718.txt. They live on shared drives and usb drives, they are fast food wrappers, empty water bottles, or dust. I reread some and post them if I still like them.
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