Collage
I’m collecting words and creating a whirlpool
catching myself in an aisle at the grocery
weeping over gas, food,
longing for the poemfish to find me,
and bring me back over the poet bridge
to the centre of the house.
Paul who breaks pencils
talks about lawnmower poets
whose
words
march
resolutely
down
the
side
of
the
page
so
it
looks
like
a
neatly
mowed
lawn.
He suggests caterpillar poets are more interesting,
sticking words all over the page in a
random yet not random
fashion
it’s more intriguing to read
spaces instead of commas
and the odd !
for no good reason at all. ! .
Who were you in my dream,
stirring the sky with your fear of poetry,
being visited by words?
I dress myself with rain
and
the blue socks from my grandmother.
I know it looks like I’m lying to tell the truth
but to tell the truth, I’m lying.
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