Tuesday, April 26, 2005

Meditation 3

Meditation 3

My children in argument surface from below. The dog grazes my calves as he crosses under the table. A pen has gone missing. A bone buried. Irritations blooming like bulbs having wintered over. The tuneless surge of the shower two rooms away whispers like a sea in my left ear. One never does what the other asks. A dog has gone missing. The pink tulips hold their green secret. The sky has released its loose wet petals. A pink scarf the rain writes its cursive script on. The dog, found, crosses from in to out and back in again. Someone stands naked in the shower’s rain. In April, the winter is trying to become a summer. Under the rambling rose, the knot of a bone.

1 comment:

  1. Lovely! I think I need to start writing prose poems again. They are so dense and self-contained. You've inspired me. I need to find a similar project. Maybe I'll write prose poems on note cards. That way I'll know when I'm finished. Nice work!



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