On Discovering My First Sun Spot While Reading Whitman

I admire my dark hair
In a passing window
As I but briefly glance
At its new-box shine.

Nature needed nudging
And only took twenty-five
Minutes to comply.

I wait for my 54 bus
And flip through
“Sleeping on the Wing,”
Hoping not to be interrupted
Even as motors in my
peripheral cause my head to oscillate in the shade, skimming the page, then

Looking on the horizon

As though hunting
(Tho only a passing woman’s curious dog sniffing my gym bag for a moment’s company).

A fleck of brown on the back of my hand causes me to pause.
The hummingbird ceases its shivering.
One hand is holding the book…
The swan senses movement from
Another unseen plane.
There’s no stillness, only a hiccup
Of consciousness.

How comfortable we our with our bodies depends on not how much
We view them but on allowing ourselves
To view them in cursory moments
And accept what we see.

Hello out there

I’m a writer, based in Kansas City, and am about to begin a second year residency with Charlotte Street Foundation, during which I’ll be completing a play about Edgar Allan Poe. Though I’ve participated in a poetry reading marathon, this is my first poetry writing marathon.

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