Telling Time
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A poem wanting more than anything to begin itself*
but words just stare at you, wide-eyed
A poem wanting more than anything to begin itself
but language is for idiots, who think it signifies
A poem wanting to begin itself
because people are color bursts, strange lights clattering through darkness
A poem wanting to begin itself
because you saw the headline—Pelicans Plunge Into Sidewalk—but you did not click
A poem wanting to begin itself
but the pen cannot, it cannot
A poem wanting to begin itself
shift your weight, stretch your legs
A poem wanting to begin itself
there is always something there for you—whisky, vodka, gin
A poem wanting to begin itself
only you can fit into a box this small, and remain
Only you can fit into a box this small, and remain
A poem wanting to begin itself
the sky cries out with seagull shrieks, streaks of red light
A poem wanting to begin itself
tied down by power lines, the bird cannot rise
A poem wanting to begin itself
but the language is broken
it has stopped talking and is stuck now in books, fixed in lines
A poem wanting to begin itself
but first you have to open the door wide and speak your nonsense to the sky
A poem wanting to begin itself
like chocolate melting in your hand
like clay clinging to your palm
A poem wanting to begin itself
as if it could give you some relief from this
A poem wanting to begin itself
as if it could give you some relief
A poem wanting to begin itself
like some kind of rupture
A poem wanting to begin itself
just like this
*The prompt, "A poem wanting more than anything to begin itself," is from a poem in Maya Stein's new collection, Spinning the Bottle.
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© 2001-2004 Norene Griffin
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