I’ve written too many poems, many of them bad. And I’ve lost track of dozens. Most of the time, that’s for the best. But I’ve been in a rut and looking at some of these older pieces just might be able to inspire something in me. It’s worth a try anyway.
Do most poetry writers find they remember so little of what they’ve written, or is this my special curse?
Bowls gloom with dirt,
twelve ounces each, short-lipped
and deep. Then water rots
clamped fins to dying lace.
In old Siam, the puddles bloom
with fish, seeded by flood, unfurl
scale petals out behind, all blue
and red. They die in mud
or jarred like pickles.