Tuesday 2am

I reach for you
with cautious confidence-
the way I stretch a hand out in the dark
toward my bedside table, knowing
it’s there, but not precisely where. And yet, when I startle
myself awake, you, unlike my glass of water,
have wandered off- no doubt in pursuit (or avoidance?)
of your own dreamscape
and I am left
in the still-dark hours
of the morning.


Upon Arriving

The house smelled strongly of pet
pee, the fridge was empty except for
condiments and the promised internet connection
was nowhere to be found, but I sank
my feet into sun-warmed sand, embraced
an old friend, and felt satisfied with the distance
between the far shore and myself.

Found text experiment

I’ve been experimenting recently with a particular kind of found-text poetry that I’ve heard called blackout poetry, cross-out poetry, and book page poetry. The idea is to take a page of text and to create a poem by crossing out all the words you don’t want to be in the poem.

Here’s an example using a page from a pieceĀ out of The Sun magazine (Oct. 2013, issue 454) called Already Falling:


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