You can’t write good til
you’ve written a lot of poems
Here are the bad ones
You can’t write good til
you’ve written a lot of poems
Here are the bad ones
-for Ruth Chew
As a kid I had a book
about a secret box,
kept under your bed,
that collects missing things.
That was the magic I wanted,
not the power to fly –
but to recover.
Sometimes before
you’d noticed
what you lost.
There it would be,
found.
It’s morning again, sun.
Let’s be good together.
Is there a way
of getting past
my suffering,
the way I put
into my past
old faiths?
I have stalled and stalled
but I keep catching up
with myself.
It is time to sit still
in my own arms
and ask myself
about us.