The poem

John Vernon wrote, “Poems are bodies. They are drops that break off from the mass of a poet’s body, congeal, take shape, and become bodies themselves.”
I know that there is a poem inside of me, spinning its way into my eyes, some crystal globule that is part fly and part duende.

There is a fly on the wall. Where did it come from in a locked room? I wondered the same this morning of a lady bug crawling on the window frame and a spider hanging between the window’s wood and the metal of the shower casing. Miracles slip through the cracks or maybe they are breeding in the hidden places, unseen by the selves we leave behind in hotel rooms.

10 minutes later
I actually wrote a poem. Halfway good. If there was only more time! I need a writers residency for the first week of April in Philadelphia, that way I can go to visit my family for a few days and then leave to go someplace designated for me to write.

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