Thursday, September 8, 2011


in evening light, the crickets turn

my  clause
into claws

my  sentence
into sin tents

my  punctuation
into punt to ā shin

my  paragraphs
into pear of grafts

my  metaphors
into mutt of whores

. . .

my  poems
into pomes

placed in the imaginary garden with real toads, where the question was asked: Can a poem be like an Impressionist painting?