Waiting, Friend
July 10, 2010, by Homme De Sept-Iles
your imagination
won’t let me skate
with you
is a
wounded bear hiding deep in
burning wood
too big for the shrinking
cave
you hold me only
with your voice
what once was gruff
thunder
is the pity blank
ball black gaze
your iris no
longer divine
Lately (say the past 21 years), I don’t like the one-long-basic chopped-single-sentence style in a poem but some literary criticism I read today allowed me to release this one. I don’t like this poem. But the feeling that inspired it was as genuine as for the others. I also feel the word choice shows too little precision. I apologize to all concerned.
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