Thanksgiving day poem
“\7777777777777777777777777777777777.” she said. "My novel," she said.
Seven,
a paw resting on keyboard. I
go with found
objects, stray clouds and a
feather, perfectly
formed before me.
They speak the language of
portent, only
lighter, scraps of a day left
along the road, waiting
for adoption. I pick them up,
treasure
silently. Shouting boys kick
a water bottle toward me. I
empty it on plants,
forming clouds which fill the
camera with odd light.
posted by DPMcManus @ 11:52 AM
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