Reading Montale then Ann Marie Macari, I think I’m starting to get it — poetry. The mysteriousness of language, why form may be good for me. Writing to the you not the reader about the you (Montale) and Macari’s surprises within short poems.
How to do this? Keep reading more. Write without thinking. What I keep striving for — approval?
Out the window, a red pepper
floats in the air, the mirage of
you, that vegetable rawness
that grows from the ground
and captures who you might think
you are. When the light turns
off, the shoe drops and everyone
asks where you’ve been.
I try to tie it back to your lips
on the edge of that red sky.
Forgiveness. Felt breath
on a pillow. Someone watching.
rips apart the
head of the
I will vow to be
close to you