I arrive like an army with a sudden objective.
Like an army with an occupationally
An occupationally indifferent lust
for creative spoil.
And I'm sort of
running on a track
around imagined kill.
Except that the kill's in the centre,
And I'm on the encircling track.
With the kill just farther than a couple of inches.
So I think
maybe I ought to give up on the
idea of predator and prey
And simply gaze,
with no objective to grab or to tame
Or to make it keel over and respond to names
I call it.
* * *
Not to give things a name
is what a poem is
or along the way...
just the imagining one might say.
The futility and staying power
of doing the concentric.
* * *
The first poem is the muck I wrote for a Creative Writing exercise.
The second is my teacher's response to the poem I wrote. I like the last two lines of hers.