How it is…

I write a poem a day sometimes two
I speak to a neighbor’s parakeet
Pull books at random from their shelves
No one is in charge no locksmith
I do not know my maker
My voice is a mystery
This life is a ship board affair—
Radio signals come
Turn eighty degrees left
Reduce speed
Wrack your memory
For what you suspect occurred
At this longitude
I own a notebook
Of mid-ocean static
From simply crossing a room

 

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

w

Connecting to %s