What Sometimes Happens To Writers/Readers
One dives into the drown
of too-late, murk stretched
as longing as the I can see–
Notted growths choke stroke.
Still–as if time could be unhanded, sands
listen, effort alone mangle
the foregone–
one pushes
until despair bears words
that carry the oxygen
of their own utterance;
short breaths and
possible is again.
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Yes, I am trying not to blog and work on other things–but I couldn’t resist the call of the G-man. I thought this also fit with Anna Montgomery’s challenge on dVerse Poets Pub to write something avant garde. I don’t think it is terribly avant garde, but the word usage is unusual for me. Photo is weird pic of mine–not quite right for poem, but just one I liked. (As always, all rights reserved.)
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