Her tepid clay pigeon pen
Unresembling wings or other flying things
Flows
She strangles its narrow neck, interrogation by noose
Loops and scratch
lines. Facts. Only the boldest,
truest statements
apply. Condensed herself in this square space she avoids and
skirts the far edges. Newspaper crisps in the October low sun
and pollen makes her more
Miss Chevious.
Her plump pinkie smears tracks while the pointer pushes on, blame, and her thumb has its privileged back-
space-deletion is better than insertion.
They want to know-she said-Or do they?
Write a Bio
or abbreviated autography, They have requested do in process…
Theories sound better in white, she writes and smears-
-Eternity in a paragraph-
History at present, is blurry. I have aimed at Life in a picture. It is coming in-and per-fading, presently-the eye-just passing through. That she-writes poetry. She lived there, has left -no forwarding ad-dress. She still dwells, not here, not She.
Miss Chevious.
Good? He too-with two shoes walks the same line.
Post-haste.
Mister Place & B. Gananew
Painting by Florent Joseph Marie Willems [Public domain or Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
