I love not literature
Although there was a time I did chase
Form and pathos, passion, plot and rhyme
Down labyrinthine hours.
No, it is the letters,
Solitary, neat, and bunched together
Tightly to make meaning burst upon my senses
Rose or velvet, sour milk or midnight shouts.
So, do not ask me about
Augustine or Virgil, neither Shakespeare,
Dickenson or Frost, when what I study
Is the E tucked under R, next to a D or N
Elusive, huge, eternal footprints
Like a bird's or rivulet's
Upon the sand, ephemeral and shifting
Quiet shells and scales and feathers in my hands.
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Comments: 6
Wonderful imaging...I particularily like the last stanza.