Poem about writing poetry plus a poem
Kickapoo Creek is bare as bone.
Its bed has cracked.
Its springs have sprung …
Heat bubbles to the surface,
full and rounded
like her breast …
Summer in Minnesota. Sometimes you're the windshield, but most often you're lunch for the Bugs.
Did you see the cloud, love? One, big cottony sail Lying so still against an azure sea Moving now, gently on summer's sweet sigh