Insert me here

It’s hard getting back into a poem, the kneading required to insert my body, my brain, my vision – the vision that started it, I see it again. This one is green and forested. This one is tangled. I’ll sit in the yard being bit by mosquitoes. Dusk. I need to strip and build, strip and build from “the body up.”

This morning Pat drove me to work while two men and a woman walked the other direction on deserted train tracks. They each carried bulging trash bags. They each had long weedy hair. I remember the woman most. Crushed velvet green pants, the stretchy kind, the fabric that sticks to skin like wheat, catches at leg hairs. What was she doing with them? Why was she last in their line? Where was she going? What was she packing, hunched, over her shoulder that to every one else looked like trash?

This entry was posted in Uncategorized, wandering mind. Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *


Valid XHTML Strict and CSS