Poetry, April 25 2018

Words and rhythms, poetry, have crawled into me. Now I want to read poetry in the park, on a checkered tablecloth. I want to see my friends silent, picking at grass, sun on their arms and hair. And to be silent, and pick at grass, and hear their voices.

I miss that. Five years ago we read poetry on the quad day after day after day. And it wasn't my idea, but I was the most faithful.

I've let myself drift away. Keep on loving, let yourself be known.