Saturday, March 5, 2011

Poetry speaks from the empty
hole-punched

sheets of compressed
wood.

A poet is hollow
that floods may pass, and
thunderous, churning waves consume.
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2 comments:

Rebecca said...

lovely

March 5, 2011 at 6:59 PM
Tim Shey said...

It is the empty cup that needs to be filled.

March 6, 2011 at 11:30 AM

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