came back to
type type type
again -
the stubborn
clack clack clack
& go & go, of the hands,
their tips, their ends
to write a little poem
they clumsily
attempt
but then
they've forgotten
the way
later
the white milk
trapped in the tall glass
seems to be clearly
mocking them
mmm, milk?
milk?
and poems?...
ah!
and they remember then
those deeper
and sadder
yet writer-er
days
when little poems
came easily
yes! ... those days
and instead of a poem
the tips lazily
don't write but
re-post, so then
from June 17 of the
Two Thousand and Seven
this came
milk & sky
Morning &
I’ll walk out the door of my existence
facing a bright blue sky
&
Spilled like hot milk
On a warm morning stove
minute white clouds hop around
dazzling blue cuts this sorrow
the milk melted, was your eyes
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