The umbrella I left on the train; the jacket of the woman who was sitting across from me, the one with the sad eyes and the smooth cuticles; the ink in the pen in the pocket of my purse; deli carnations; the bird I was cast as in the first grade, the one who couldn't fly; a stone; a sky; what Christmas would be without you; the space between red and yellow, between mapped land and chartered stars, between two and true; the sound of running water, of running, of walking away and not turning back, of not turning, of turning too quickly; a berry pie; very cold ice; a very hot flame; my pappy's eyes; the guitar pick he's got in his pocket; the bird, though, (little bird/little bird blue), in the end, I think she flew, though I didn't, of course, being only six with no wings at all save the feather-plastered cardboard they strapped to me just before the curtain rose.
3 comments:
My guitar pick wanted to let you know that it appreciates being mentioned in your writing. Oh, and thanks for leaving out that one blue toenail of mine.
What a fine post. David Shapiro once noted that I used only twelve words in my poems and blue was one of them. I've tried to expand the vocabulary since but how to remove the word blue? What better word? Stevens gave us that , no? To tick it tock it turn it true. things as they are, as played upon the (what?) blue guitar.
i adore it.
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