Without a net

Poetry is about rhythm and photographs. The feeling of completing a poem makes me want to drive fast and honk the horn. Like sending a shout out to God or a muse, like figuring out a riddle that was always there but needed to be solved.


In my sleep last night, I dreamed I did a back-flip off a doctor's examining table and landed perfectly on my feet. I started laughing uncontrollably and woke myself and Letterlady up. She, who sees and interprets omens everywhere, pronounced it a Good Sign.