2 Oct 2013, 11:09am
Writing
by

2 comments

Edvard Munch
(too many things I have done already)

Submissions are many sails on a water without boats.
They look like flies’ wings, wings of the flies hatching
maggots of flies’ wings, wings of dragonflies.
Sails as a hollow willow leaning down over still water.
What would you do with sails?
Sails you can carry as an embrace.
I find it difficult to watch them. My mouth is open,
the words rattle in me. There must be a chakra I can’t place,
which one do I touch, how say it?
When you are sorry for healing
then you have a headache of a different sort,
the stomach has two legs, the heart too many wonders/worries,
lungs aren’t at home. I am sorry for the destruction.
I want a secure, cool night with many stars, no voices.

5 Oct 2013, 6:46pm
by laurel


I keep thinking about your poetry that you left in the woods.

I picture your poems sitting around an unlit campfire.

Listening to coyotes and owls and other night sounds. Not touching, not talking. Just sitting there in the dark staring into the space where the flames should be.

I know; it’s weird.

I like that vision. Next time I go back there I will sit around the fire late at night and see if I can find any.

 

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