Poem 78

Post



I can remember coming home to post-it notes
clinging precariously to lamp shades, grasping at doorknobs.
And when I had collected them all in a pile I sighed, 
for I had been wondering about them all summer,
wondering where you might hide them, what color pens you would 
choose to inscribe over and over: I love you I love you I love.
 
It was a sad moment. I collected each one in my fingers, felt the frailty of love.
Paper love letters smooth in my fingers like eggshells, but warmer, paper
warms faster than eggshells; paper can be re-perfected. Love is the prettiest word to
behold on a post-it. I nearly wept to see them all there crooked together.
Sad to have found them. More self piteous than sad.
 
I love you I love you I love… those afternoons post, opening drawers;
unpacking boxes, rearranging shoes harboring hideaway post-its. Lines 
of a sonnet could be fleshed out there, in the terror of discovering the Very. Last. One.
I held quite still. Clutched the paper between my fingers. This paper; this love
hiding behind hangers and book ends, on the underside of tables. Not infinite, not over yet.
–ECW 

Poem 77

Dear readership,

I appreciate that you have yet to abandon ship. I’ve had a few shocks in the last few weeks and the blog fell through the cracks. Since this was made mainly to accompany a project, and that project is nearing it’s deadline, I will be posting less and less (though more frequently than November and December. Thanks for sticking around.

I promised 100 poems and you will have them… they might just be a little last minute 🙂

from reading a VW

And why bother with plants in barrows when
caughtup in the button-loop and suspended
is a clay face furrow, flanked and filthy–
dark snow in winter hoarding all along
the absence of spring. What now fills
the evening with ink and begs for sleep
for silence
there are plants in barrows, surely,
whole pantries full of patient blue eggs
carving spring from the naked woods by
butterknives takes all winter…
hooves collecting flecks of color in cubbords
to cushion the sawdust and seeds. Blance beasts
in blank places stir now despite the snow–
while you were sleeping; while you slept.
–ECW

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