Author’s note: to be read on infinite loop

Enough to still the movements no one sees
in statue, ice, or iron or the trees
which chip, melt, ring, sprout leaves. Presences still
.     Presences having their fill – face frees face
freeze face (my worry in Unworried Will) –
of one another linked :: moment and place ::
lesser in Greater (greatest, then Greater)
until my lesser freezes. Enough to…

This is the way Ice Ages can conceive,
can by unmoving move the world to be.
They tell me, “Worlds can only grow so hot
before they burn out, ours will burn out soon.”
Then, having fizzled, freeze amniotic.

Can I expend my energy to freeze?
To move to stop before I’m out of moves?

about the 54 @ 27 ::

It’s that time again!

When I was 23, I read this stupid article that claimed the perfect age for writing quality poetry is twenty-three. Well I freaked out like I do and cranked out work like I can and it resulted in 46 poems written at 23. A year passed, I calmed down, then I freaked out again two years later and wrote another bunch of poems called 50 at 25, all written before I turned 26 on April Thirtyish.

Will I keep up this twice-my-age regimen on the odd years? Who knows.

But this year?

This year I’m trying a more holistic approach. 54 poems crammed into next spring will kill me, guaranteed. But one a week? That’s doable and the blog has languished of late. One a week-ish I can do.

So let’s do this thing.