Tuesday, July 10, 2012


Perhaps the trouble
is too much time spent writing
about men.

I am a turbine whirling
round and round, always planted
in the same place.

Would that these windmills
could cartwheel across green fields
to new pastures.

There I would write only
about Things That Matter
like God and Hunger

and the soft fuzz on the back of his ear. 

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