The whole movement, the whole project
started with a note and ended with the wrote
rote memory of something,
the pinned down and up gone flying high
to grasp the grappling blizzard sun;
white in all directed nothing down over,
lifting blistered lofty dancing ever up,
and finally in realization having done no more.
Thursday, May 19, 2011
Poem-A-Day: Day 553
Cycle 21
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Drop a line, a quip, a snippet, your pants, or an anecdote...just don't drop the soap.