Poetry

Writing, for me, has been a way to record the beauty of the world and to weave words into achingly glorious snippets.
I read poetry, and I sigh when I am done. Not in a lovesick sigh, but in a way, I wish I could absorb this poetry forever, and not just bask in the afterglow. I wish I could eat poetry.

Eating Poetry by Mark Strand

Ink runs from the corners of my mouth.
There is no happiness like mine.
I have been eating poetry.

The librarian does not believe what she sees.
Her eyes are sad
and she walks with her hands in her dress.

The poems are gone.
The light is dim.
The dogs are on the basement stairs and coming up.

Their eyeballs roll,
their blond legs bum like brush.
The poor librarian begins to stamp her feet and weep.

She does not understand.
When I get on my knees and lick her hand,
she screams.

I am a new man.
I snarl at her and bark.
I romp with joy in the bookish dark.