one line one line one line one line

one line one line one line one line
typing that quickly is like a lame horse. clompidy clomp. There’s a large ant on our coffee table. Feeling out the cracks with his long feely wires. I’ll leave him. His reflection on the polished wood is like dancing partners. He must have missed the giant open bag of sweedish fish. No, not under the table. You’re looking in the wrong direction.

What poet said crafting a poem was like pushing, digging, squeezing out a sliver?

I’m working with 5 lines, so the 6th line has to mean it. The 5 lines are ready and waiting, the 6th is taking it’s GD time. And I leave and come back and I leave and come back and I’m hoping soon the tide will shift the sand over the shell; soon that ant will sniff out the red, gleaming candy in a direction he didn’t set out to go.

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2 Responses to one line one line one line one line

  1. Whether it is the beginning or the end, it all comes down to one line, doesn’t it? That sort of magic seems to happen, for me, when I’m looking in some other direction, like the ant. xo

    • rachvb says:

      It’s possible I need to be looking in another direction right now, but I’m too afraid to leave it. I think the strange thing for this poem is every line is in place except for one. And normally I’m not waiting for it to come, I usually have something to mold and to work from. I’ve never felt such gravity in one line. Now, I’m just searching for the last nail. Patience. I know it will come.

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