Sunday morning, Jan. 6, 2013

There’s no preset attempt at a particular attempt at a poem. It’s just there. Whatever comes out that comes out. It’s all edited. I want to love the structure to be nice. A police siren just sprang in the distance, somewhere  near the railroad tracks? At least the train won’t pass by tonight. And it stopped. Perhaps nothing.  The wind is still aching outside. Moaning. She’ll never lose her voice.

Leave a Reply

Please log in using one of these methods to post your comment:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s