big and small
and sometimes with a tail
that is clutched
by twisting hands
of nervousness
I try to write like you do.
no starting out
with an I
but statements that swing
through the sky
and sometimes like tuning a guitar
they’ll rhyme.
big and small
and sometimes with a tail
that is clutched
by twisting hands
of nervousness
I try to write like you do.
no starting out
with an I
but statements that swing
through the sky
and sometimes like tuning a guitar
they’ll rhyme.
there’s a shadow who lays on my windowsill
from the crow who sits on the telephone wires
and if I wasn’t home reading up your poetry
I’d be out in a forest setting fires.