Bored Sophia of the card I sent out. A box of envelopes quite contained. For her from me already intent.
I'm burning to write today, really I am! For the first frustration. Words equal soil, compost, seeds, water.
But in my dream she says, You always begin with a metaphor. A wish is just another word for what. So let me write you then this note instead.
Jack Gilbert at the circus buying bread. A bent smile, a pert beard, a familiar voice. I never thought to say hello as that time earlier in the library.
Listen to what does a poet do? I felt flat trying to answer against all the faces watching. Uh, diamonds not zircons in a crowd?
Etc. Saturday from a thought shower, if you know what I mean. There is still this adult I long to be.
A fiction is the child I am yet. Getting angry hosannas when I don't write or be a person without it.