Tuesday, September 27, 2011
The Bully at the Library
The bully at the library feels itchy, twitchy like
one-too-many sweaters. Like the old man leans in sudden to
pop you one. Like the stump-tailed cat next door.
He carves his misery into a spine of Shakespeare. His thick
hands among the stacks are clumsy birds. Knuckled dumb by
narrowed choice and chance, he settles into story.
For a moment, his fury is lost amid beckoning worlds.
Posted by SP at 9:30 PM
Monday, February 14, 2011
Valentine with Whales
I mean to write what is true, what came, what became without
effort of naming; what teases just beyond the reach of
words, slips out of frame, refuses to be pinned to the page.
I aim to list, to count, account each reason, spin of season,
to order every moment's joyous mess. Knowing if it could
be captured, framed, contained, it would be less.
I offer instead what we felt among circling whales.
Posted by SP at 1:32 PM