Sunday, July 27, 2014

Prompt, Me


Write about the stars, you said,
The Tour de France, how music looks
If you can see the sound.

I draw short rays, points of dust,
A spiral then a snail
Atop a bug. And clouds.

I've settled now,
Into this sack of bones. Where I want
Is where I go.

I can no more prompt me
Than I can stop the sparks 
In the eye of this winged pig caught in a net 
Of my making.


  1. Karen I have a method of self promptinf, backing my behind into a pointed stick i have planted for the purpose of making me move forward.

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