Wednesday, August 01, 1990

Untitled 1990

The words are bubbling away
inside of me --
Working up a strange concoction of convention
Simmering slowly,
Til the finished product is
more than drivel.
I want the words to come
together in just such a way
as to reach gentle fingers around the
heart of the reader.
And long after they believe it is gone,
Squeeze it tightly.
I hold in the palm of my hand
of the forgotten kind.


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