The Poetry Marathon

Under this paper is a spine

under this paper is

a gift

under this paper is sanitized for your protection

under this hello is why

under the rule of virus

skeletons rejoice

Joints make themselves heard

Knuckles swell

listen for the space they are about to take up.

Holy, holy, holy.

Holy, holy, holy.

Set the table

visitors

over hills now show themselvess

the trees do not have leaves

so we see whoever comes.

Whoever comes

holy, holy, holy.

Whoever comes holy, holy, holy.

Unlock the door,

holy, holy, holy

Unlock the door

and seem busy

seem like fate sneaked up

fate

holy, holy, holy.

Before the simple moon was in its place

then no one knew the reason for your face

a lunch where all could gossip, snap, or sneer

Was where the fates discussed and talked about

The many snags that every sweater has

May need a microscope to understand

A luncheon with the temperature of ice

What do with you, already there, we should

The forest woudn’t give us any aid

The silent rock did never blink its eyes

Said you were here to police all the brass

To turn the spots of mica into gold

You never did annoynce your purpose here

Needless to say, a persona may adhere

to goals celestial, measured out by stars

or if the mission fades, find your own way.

What we have of the moon

and the moon has of us

Borderlands, we hvae

the moon has us looking

We have the opening moon

the moon has too many eyes

A black coat to cover,

blame.

Rocks in glass cases, though they be dull

a yearning for the ’70s.

Storms between 3 and 5 a.m. have led me to begin now.

My cats aren’t all that excited.  Neither are my plants.

I am.

I thought I might spend a whole day making and choosing and snipping and stitching, with less time reading endless articles about the… you know.

I write mostly nonfiction, essays.  About once a year, I “get” a poem.

I’ll catch a bunch of them later today.

It’s 5:08 a.m., and I am never awake in this piece of the night.