Journal #512014

While writing under the dim light, in early morning, or late at night, I look for poems at the tips of my stinging fingers, worn of typing, working, beating against my warm and slippery cheeks, worrying over something, someone, over words. I search for the shapes of poems in the piles of unopened mail. Listen for letter sounds, low decibel, rhythm sway and shift. I am vulnerable with my tongue, my subjects, the soft bending of the day. I pay attention to the letter crumbs and dust piled in the corner beneath bills, Sunday’s paper, or the dozen books I build as word castle in the corner. I sit with those words full in my sleeve, cool in my pocket. I listen, look, wipe the backs of my fingers along line breaks, push those words along metered plank, watch them rise and fall as tempered waves…


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