Wednesday, May 27, 2009



Several of my poems froze last night.

Some of the words

are as white as snow this morning.

The commas carry backpacks of frost.

The somber, ice-coated words

aren’t fit for standing in lines.

How insignificant they seem

as they sit like lumps of ice

on my desk, how distressing,

my once proud poems

with ships of feelings

frozen inside them. 

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