Poems, Poems, Poems,
Magnetic spots on diskettes,
ink spots on paper,
words flung at the walls
or
held within
or lost
like those great paintings
of olden days
which were stored in the dampness
of the basement,
like the missing Van Goghs
which had been
used for archery practice.
Words scattered like rice at a wedding,
like
pigeon droppings,
like smoke which drifts and dissipates
in the crisp morning air.
Poetry is like the breeze which ripples the flag.
Just for an instant
the flag defies gravity
and
we notice
***
