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| Process by © DuaneSimolke I wanted to know, I asked, If I could fashion a page, Fashion a poem. I wanted to read it to you And see life breathed into sand. Doorways, windows, eyes Open, filling empty spaces, Empty pages, Until I see writing and living As a single color, Until I see your lips forming words As eyes turn like hands of a clock, Roads turn and spin webs Around mountains Until I find you. I want to write Within storms, To tear my poem from the stone Of any language, Of any etymology, For someone listening In any classroom. I keep looking back over An unpublished manuscript, Never completed, Still demanding a phrase, As if one phrase can complete, As if a thousand phrases can. I pray; I sleep; I wake to write you a poem. |
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