I cannot
splash colours
on scraps of dirty paper
or trill on silver flute
my singing would
scare the crows
from the battlements
at
this isn’t a poem
to move bones against
clay in buried urns
this is
my map of you
what letters are made of
my ultimate
post-modern
pastiche
2 comments:
Hi Carole, I think the first one works best, sorry.
I haven't seen any earlier versions, but this one works well for me. It is tight and well constructed and the thought both took me along and surprised me. The idea driving it resonates with me.
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