Poetry Writing



I fish in quiet places

Preferably from a desk

sea-wearied with scribbled notepads

and flotsams of Pencil shavings


My eyeball hangs from the hook

Descending into

The still white surface

that sticky, stubborn — impermeable even:



Beneath the waters

the eye must look.

the eye must scour


Better yet,

the eye must plumb deeper

Where whale carcasses conspire

To sing insidious black whispers

out of tune with the ghosts

Of drowned sirens


The eye must gather:

The eye must bring up

The eye must remember


And then the work begins



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