Written very early in the dark on a Wednesday morning, the following lines seem more suitable for a Sunday — with the quiet half-understanding, of course, that there is really, and has only ever been, one day, and that that day has no need of a name. What happens is this: I hitch a ride, and for a while it carries me down the road. I smile when the driver pretends to know the way. And the driver smiles at me. Wherever we go, we go willingly. And that is poetry.
Words in a Row
Moss doesn’t die, whispers one stone to the next.
And a ghost says, I wonder if forever is as long as I think it is.
To which forever replies, In the beginning. Yes.
Categories: New Poems & Pieces