Bookstore Poem #430

Got most of this down during a poetry reading, then added the rest when I got home…

Suddenly, I am inclined to write without form, without agenda, wandering through a forest of commas, ignoring the spaces after full stops and the crowding of words around em-dashes, and consider maybe travelling the world by rail, though I will say I would miss the patchwork quilts of city blocks and farmlands visible from the aircraft—but then maybe that’s not such a good idea, seeing as how the words at the end of each line seem so much larger than those at the beginning, and it’s really hard to meander when you can’t make out the shapes of what’s around you…

(17 November 2018)

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