There you go, release
the words in small flocks, tumbling
light in the near air
and see where they land.
It may turn out as soul balm
and then again not.
Poems have their own
intent as if they are born
beyond you and me.
December 17, 2010 11:25 AM
Hurry
18 hours ago
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The chicken crossed the road. That's poultry in motion.