Sunday, October 23, 2016

paper planes

it is all useful
the untidy list   the blocked route to the mud room
clothes on the floor
children who are late for school continuously
like a bad cold that won't wear away
these donkeys of thoughts
that won't leave
and must be brayed

I tell myself
that each poem I read
will vanquish the mud
from my boots
that I will be able to stamp a row
of words in a book
that is invisible now
but it will read out real


how we fool ourselves
this poem I am cutting out of the book
of another poet
is simply his mind on fire
I can't duplicate it
I can simply make the words into paper planes
throw them into the distance
and hope that they mark a place I can eventually find

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