Book Unread
You ask for the book and then page through
Reading only the parts of interest to you.
You never get the whole story, yet
On Waking
I wish that at eight
It wasn't too late
For the poetry to rise to the top
Crumpled Words
Her tears held the page in place
A torrent of emotion obscured its face,
In words smeared and blurred
Their meaning lost.
The page was
Torn,
Mangled,
Tossed
Into the space of memory.
My Pencil
My pencil fell upon the road,
Full of the words I thought I’d write.