The way your hand fell into mine | 6 July 2006

Paris–

Sea, thoughts of
the long windows that
opened out to it — there
the way your hand fell
into mine, the sand
and the broken
glass, blues and greens

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The mysteriousness of language | 5 December 2006

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?

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There is a world between the trees | 1 February 2007

There is a world between the trees, scattered along the boulevard. Wanting it to be as real as the stop sign on the corner, wanting a hand to hold onto the handlebars. This is when the neighbors laughed. Body of gold. When the time came for the dogs to be let out, they were let out. Someone jumped in bed with someone else. The tulips turned yellow.

Pull back the curtains | 19 February

Pull back the curtains.
Feel light against raw skin.
Capture the eyelash that falls
as you blink.
These are the words I can no longer
speak with.
To be the mirror that holds
the reflection, to be the reflection
and not the thing.
I dreamt you were stones
at the bottom of a fish tank
black stones, and as the light
hit the water, I could see
through you. You were empty.
My mouth filled you up.

If There Is Magic | 21 February 2007

More Popa. Just finished the book. “Little Box” did little for me, much more interested in his last book, when the poet and his ancestry come in. I loved the poem the “Other World” — and somehow I need to write a paper about why. The poem begins so strange with those cupcakes drifting down the river, and then ends on Popa trapping birds.

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