Goldenlocks

I stumbled upon a short 

story, written

as if it were a poem-

Lines broken like cracks in the side-

walk that one steps

Over

Its title did not evoke its

gait and I hazard to observe-

if it walks like a big duck

it could be a small goose

and then

what do profiles 

Reveal or musings in marginalia...

What makes a poem,

a place, a sense of something familiar

almost like thoughts

Severed

So many stories

follow a straight line

and then

I 

turned a corner

saw a different path

without backstory and confident

Nobody

was following me

(anymore)

and then

it was done. 

Artwork by Virginia Frances Sterret, 'Old French Fairy Tales 0077 in Public domain in US, via Wikimedia Commons.

Body

When composed
I have been most like a
lightly punctuated piece of prose.

I recently noticed this
when asked about tendencies
and putting ourselves into forms
or shapes.

When tasked
under grammatical conditions
we need not justify
why we do
to be understood through all the
various transitive verbiage.

Assembly was always required
of us
but never easy.
Only a certain grace found in
a harmless poem
could reflect lightly
a likeness of Others.

Our bodies of work
lie
in the white spaces
where there is room for the shadows
cast by the words beheld
and there are more than enough
glimpses of more
meaning
to be caught-

in mid-air-
afloat where we see
more than the sun setting in
(a day).


Image of writing by Joseph Carstairs, penned c. 1820 in [Public domain].