Poem: Written

I have poems lying around, buried and crumpled under books, squashed in miscellanea, etc.  Here's one

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Written

it was done.  written.
the holes in the letters formed small eyes.
looked up.

so much code coursing the Earth.
parades of happysad tomorrows.
joyous, brutal, mindless, shamed, 

pensive or indignant,

prayerful, cursing, obsequious.

all of it mainly ignored

and yet always read.

the phrases, 

they tended to make revisions,
rescript the plot,
fruit the novel's weight.

indeed, the ab ovo intent 

had never been to finish,

or specify a start.

the twined characters rewrote the writer,
yanked that first afflatus
into their own expanding personas.
offshoots, once fiction,
launched on unprecedented trips.

no one could really take credit.
the garden existed even before the growth.
its thorns had pricked the pace.

those first flowers, though,
they had wanted to capitalize Love;
and had seized the pen, in those critical moments,

moving dutiful and quick--

just before the nuances in the ink
nestled into a glisten of skins
to breathe.



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