After I edited out the « I » by Jonathan Wonham, and The Street by Chris Pusateri
I'm hardly awake, borrowing darkness
as if walking floodlit on self-edited lines.
This burgled thought pinched, swept out
of an ibis’ pocket, old lady or sapling.
I am primeval, a spectacle of myself
edited into the borrowed bright-lit brasserie
from which I roam emptily caffeinated
squeaking promises: a have-to, a trying
daybroken cowering pharmacy exhaust
before this scrupulous series of lines
lining pages or griding thought to thought as
if I could almost get out, sidebar, space, blanket.
words for April
9 hours ago