I am not as learn-ed as it seems.
Just the odd bits.
Stuck.
In the furnace of my brain.

I don’t know why it happens.
The things I can recall.
It’s looking back and forward.
Mystery in it all.

The things I touch.
The things I hold.
Brush up against.
And am told.

Come again?
Come, come, again.

Before it too is sold.

Come, again.
Come.

I am growing old.

From The Woods Project

(I am slowly going through the poems on the chapbook.

I am trying to have some faith in my words and show up for them so they get heard.

I hope it is not annoying.

I am also trying to learn to sit on poems for a bit before I publish them, work on them, and add music when it works out.

This too is practice.)