Wednesday, June 16, 2010

her stories(yours and mine)

I struggle to understand
the novels she's written

in letters,
mathematic equations.

She begins composing
everyday by
a half past eight.

The tip of her
blue Bic




the space between

the top of her knee
and the sun.

Ritual and warm-up.

She removes a black and white
Composition notebook
from her cart.

It's wrapped in plastic
and a towel.

Hidden behind aluminum cans,
tin pans,
an umbrella,
and a ball of wool scarves.

Tip of the blue Bic,

one line after another of
signs and symbols.

The tale of Ida Belle
and the smokestack lighting
she saw as a child
coming from the trains
on the Gulfport Island rail line.

No comments:

Post a Comment