To have even a lotto chance of getting somewhere within yourself you don’t quite know but feel To cling to the periphery through the constant gyroscopic re-drawing of its provinces To make what Makers make you must set aside certainty Leave it a lumpy backpack by the ticket window at the station Let the gentleman in pleated khakis pressed for time claim it The certainty not the poem. Copyright © 2016 Leslie McGrath. Used with permission of the author. |
No comments:
Post a Comment