These early mornings become mist. A bridge empties it's p...

These early mornings become mist. A bridge empties it's people over this screen and nowhere is to be found that hint of the closure of the poem I've been leashed to for the last many years. I speak of it only to see it magnified and do not know if the edges have sharpened or softened.

I leave you with this: I miss poetry. I miss the way it use to tunnel under my skin and lay its eggs on the periphery: a nail balancing on the edge of my tongue. I do not miss the disasters that ensue with such poe