A bit of Dickinson lives in me,
somewhere between my thumb and index finger.
She crosses my T's and dots my I's,
each stroke varied, precise, inspired,
like Pollock's masterworks.
I nod to her Bee, her Butterfly, her Breeze,
grateful for these rare moments
when the planets align,
and everything that tells me I live
flows from my heart, through my veins, through my hands,
through keys and through wires, through ones and through zeros,
through me, through time and space, to you.
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
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2 comments:
The last two lines of this poem were from a poem I wrote years ago. I was looking through my older work, and thought, "Hey, I like these lines, but I hate this poem." I'm not sure if they're working here either.
I like this. It's a simple declaration. Ars Poetica type, and I actually think that you fit the last lines in pretty seamlessly.
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