It's Tuesday ... I drove back Saturday. It's an all day project, getting from here to there or there to here. There, sleeping out in the open camp, close to lake and stone, grass and dirt, listening to loons and crows and distant motorboats, waves lapping against the shore and the docks creaking. Poetry seemed easy. Here, it seems harder. I look out the window and see a magnolia tree and the neighbor's house. I hear the whir of the AC and the traffic on the avenue.
Aaron would find poetry in these things.
I have not written a single decent poem since Friday.
seeking imagery
for love poetry in these
cold lakes and hard stones
That is the 17 syllable version. The tight version would be better.
The tight version always is. Maybe I should drop the syllable thing.
seeking love
poems in
cold lake, hard stone
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