It’s the anxious part of me,

working to find a home for

my thoughts. Cataloging single

words while they circulate like

carousel horses waiting for the run

to the barn; verses change

the menu of how I speak.


I avoid the company of well wishers,

praising the moment, ignoring the

spirit.  They feast on the work of

others while empty on original.


Real listening turns the lock, exposing

creative roots where it becomes a rush of

water, feeding the hand and then the page.




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