Saturday, November 29, 2014

Writing Can be Habit Forming and Have Side Effects

Mornings I ride
A bike
To the place
Where I wait
For a poem to come
A piece a day
Whether good or not

If one doesn't come
On its own
I dig it up
Fingernails like tines 

Sometimes I hack my
Way through spiny plants
That tear at my skin.

Sometimes I surprise
A hawk
Or spot a centipede
As it winds from one hiding place to
The next

More often I just keep
Moving through the wind
The sun
Or the rain

Sometimes the moon
Is blue as ice
Or red

If I just keep showing
Up one will come
Or not

My legs have gotten
Big as trees

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