Thursday, November 24, 2016

Thanksgiving day poem

“\7777777777777777777777777777777777.” she said. "My novel," she said.



the number she typed repeatedly
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.




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