Yesterday I posted "the digital midden, or, we see our lives brightly through gorilla glass" (>). That poem is like spilled, spreading paint - most of it was formed in the first splash, the rest in stretching fingers that crept ever more thinly until they were only drying puddles.
The tricky part is knowing when it's dry.
c0
My 2 favorite poems:
The Red Wheelbarrow
by William Carlos Williams
so much depends
upon
a red wheel
barrow
glazed with rain
water
beside the white
chickens.
Fog
by Carl Sandburg
The fog comes
on little cat feet.
It sits looking
over harbor and city
on silent haunches
and then moves on.
[2014-07-01]
c0
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