Saturday, July 30, 2011

First Poem

It should be something magnificent,
I know.
It should be something hard and real.
It should be a polished stone,
smooth beneath a cold river.

It is old nails and bits of electrical wire.
It's the chalky residue of drywall dust.
It's a bloody nose in the dry morning.
Noodles in a pot and a ripe plum.

--Roger Huntington

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