The tree across the street is furious
with birds. It flaps its thousands
of hands like it's shooing them away.
He remembers that if you clap loud,
the birds stream out and possess
an empty tree across the street.
One flies out and back like a solar flare.
He claps so quiet, only he can hear.
I'm back to writing a poem every day, whether they stink or not.
Tuesday, September 13, 2005
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2005
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September
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- Second-hand Smoker
- Cuts (this is a second poem today to make up for y...
- Mirror and Dance
- Cycles at the Laundromat
- Vacant
- Elizabeth
- Teeth
- Simplicity
- Mouse and Me (a "lower standards" poem, I think)
- Consumed
- Not Writing Today
- Light
- Evening, September 15, 2005
- My first drug poem
- Observer
- Stealing Pleasures in Hell
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