Of (a poem)

I started this with the line about the wheat stalk. I don’t know why, but I went with it anyway…

Of a wheat stalk, climbed and broken,
comes the straw similarly bent and bruised.

Of pages set in galleys seventy-one years ago,
words pressed from ink absorb light, that I may read.

Of this stormy Monday, cast in sun and chill,
the irritants fly in all directions, some of them previously undiscovered.

Of this clatter, stabbing and eager to bite,
I am impatient, unwilling to temper my disgust.

Of too many, I find not enough,
and catch myself wondering where I can get more.

Of the thoughts unwilling to alight long enough to consider,
the louder they yell, the less I’m inclined to pay attention.

Of the words I commit to this page, of all the things I could have said,
these strike me as the most ridiculous, the least worth repeating.

Of that, at least, I am certain.

(30 October 2017)


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