...but what is a blog for if not raw poetry?
(as yet untitled)
it seems those nights my head was full
of poetry that my fingers can no longer
find. was it so very fleeting? even now
you are further and further from me- or is it
farther? i find myself in a unyielding plastic
chair, a sheet of notebook paper in front
of me. the pen i used- too much ink, has bled
to the other side, the answers i number and fill
intermingling in the fibers.
by now, you’ve extended past my reach, rubber
gripping pavement, headlights flashing over bridges
and trees, back to where you began. where i falter
to begin.
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