Poetry

There is a tiny patch of grass along 75 North, a foot long, or could be smaller. Resting under a tattered billboard for a truck stop Striptease baring all. RV resorts that promise

Repeat after me. Overtones on overtones: Artemisia dracunculus, moon dragon herb, the tarragon plant We grow in our kitchen. The unready stems quickly brown and die. A pile of tractor tires, a pile

Fog became the metaphor for all my grief, following me to the veterinary clinic where it pressed against the parking lot, then back home away from the euthanized cat, and for days later

Bless the top of my head My jukebox brain My third eye, my eyelids, Haughty bridge of my nose My tongue, that old tutor Lip, sole betrayer Clavicle, you flirt Breastbone, my wishbone

Today begins National Poetry Month. Like Love Day [https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Mz_1TCs02dY], it’s a made-up thing that is warm and fuzzy and a little lame. I love it.