The hope is to keep the poem dependent on the left-hand margin but destabilized and turning.
Like a whirling dervish, the movement of each broken sonnet is contemplative.
It can adapt to all the varying mowing conditions it meets.
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It's one of those sentences that arrived in my mind fully formed, and it just happened to be rhythmic and mysterious—so I went with that.
I gave myself a simple prompt: Write a poem of thanks.
I went to take a picture of the cat and the camera accidentally turned on my face, a contemporary occurrence that, to my horror, happens to me almost daily. As a kid, like many other kids in suburban New Jersey, I went with my family to the local park on the fourth of July to sit in a lake of seated people and watch the explosions.
I believe it happened at the Hotel San Carlos in Phoenix, where this poem was conceived.
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"Drive Thru" snuck up on me the way lust and hunger often sneak up on me.
One of the most resistant images from my childhood, which comes to me from time to time, is the damp school corridor and the cleaning ladies who warn in a threatening tone: "Don't step here!
" I don't know why that hallway was always recently-washed, or washed at the wrong time, but it sounded as a punishment to me, as if those two nice ladies, exhausted by their hard work and difficult life, gained a kind of satisfaction when imposing their small power over us, the little ones. The occupation is evicted, the protest is dismantled, things return to normal.